Her Heart's Desire
by JennCvice
Summary: Years after their fateful voyage to New York, Erik and Meg are living on Coney Island. Erik is known as Mr. Y, the owner and producer of the popular production known as "Phantasma," and Meg is his star performer. When Christine arrives to their shores, Erik is determined to right the mistake he made in releasing her to the Vicomte. Sequel to "His Consolation Prize." LND. Meg/Erik.
1. Eight Years Later

**Hello, readers!**

**"Her Heart's Desire" is a direct sequel to my story "His Consolation Prize." You don't need to read HCP to understand what's going on in HHD, but it definitely fills in the backstory for what transpired between the events of POTO that led us to Erik and Meg suddenly being in Coney Island.**

**This was such a fun chapter to write, because this is where I officially bridge the gap between POTO and LND. You'll notice that I took a few liberties. Most importantly, it has only been an eight-year gap…not ten. I just didn't want to age the characters quite that much. And I chose certain aspects of both the London version (which I have not seen in its entirety) and the Australian version (which I own). In fact, I listened to both of their versions of "'Til I Hear You Sing" over and over again, whilst writing.**

**I have a love-hate relationship with that terrible sequel to POTO. As we fanfic writers are known to do, I am rewriting it to redeem the characters I love so much!**

**Nothing is mine, really, lyrics included, of course. And, aside from your kind reviews, I benefit in no way from these properties.**

**Enjoy!  
Jenn**

* * *

It was sometimes hard to believe how much time had passed since Meg's voyage to America. Eight years…she had lived and performed in New York's Coney Island for eight years, now. A performer's schedule for Mr. Y's _Phantasma_ was an exhausting one, but the morale of the company managed to invigorate them for the next show, the next audience.

Mondays and Tuesdays were their days off. Wednesdays they rehearsed and did two shows. Thursdays were for more rehearsal time and three shows. Fridays had four shows, along with any costume fixes or choreography adjustments that needed to be made. Saturdays were grueling. Six shows. Sundays were better, with only three shows. But afterward, the entire cast was expected to clean and prepare for the upcoming week's schedule.

Acts had been added and then replaced with better forms of entertainment. Songs written by the mysterious Mr. Y were periodically brought forth by the musical director, a position that also saw change. The current director was a portly man in his mid-forties, no family, who seemed to acclimate to Mr. Y's high expectations quite well.

One emcee had not been enough, for the eclectic show. Gangle was joined by Fleck, a dwarf woman with a fearless personality, and Squelch, a tattooed body-builder. It was an odd trio, to any spectator, but after their first appearance onstage together, no one could dispute the complimentary chemistry that each added to their overall performance.

Meg, known as Addie by the cast and crew, was responsible for all of the choreography, and she seemed to be quite content as the lead dancer. Everyone knew that she had a special connection to Mr. Y, as she had been with _Phantasma_ since the beginning, but she would only smile sadly, if asked about the show's producer. Most mornings, she would dive off one of the many docks and swim in the frigid Atlantic, clearing her mind and soothing sore muscles. When it was too cold to do so, she would still walk along the docks or piers, watching the waves roll in with the tide.

And the secretive Mr. Y…was a mere shadow. Most of the company never saw him. They had heard about his half mask, and that he was French, but not much else. Gangle, Fleck, Squelch, Meg, and the musical director were the only ones to ever actually speak to him. They handled all of his business. Occasionally, a tall man in a dark cloak and suit could be seen darting between the rafters.

Once, while Meg had been teaching a routine to the chorus girls, one of them had pointed toward the ceiling. She claimed to have seen a masked face staring down at them. When Meg looked up, she barely caught the flash of cape swirling in the wake of his retreating form.

Usually, she would return to her private rooms at night and unwind from the day's activities. She turned on her Gramophone, had supper, took a bath, turned off the music, read for a bit, and then went to bed. The routine was relaxing, if unsatisfying.

But, sometimes, her program would be interrupted by him.

He would always knock politely, awaiting permission to enter. She never said no. Once inside, they would casually chat about the show, books they had read, or experiences in the city. Sometimes they ate together. On these special occasions, she would bathe quickly, forgo the reading and the music, and make herself ready for him. They would make love slowly or quickly, depending on his mood…

But he still would not kiss her.

Sometimes he would stay the night, holding her protectively. At dawn, she would smile and her morning swim would be canceled. Though, typically, he left her alone for the remainder of the night. She would toss and turn until the first vestiges of daylight invited her to return to the sea. After a ritual swim and a night without his presence, she was able to sleep soundly.

And this, for the most part, was what filled eight years of Meg's life.

It was a Monday, when she finally discovered what the Phantom did on the nights he did not visit.

She was re-reading _Le Comte de Monte Cristo_. It was the first thing she had purchased in New York, having loved the story so much. The novel was just as wonderful as she remembered, but she still felt the urge to put it down and find the man whom had introduced her to the world of Edmond Dantes.

Creeping out of her bedroom, she took a flashlight and silently made her way down the long hall to the opposite end of the theatre. Only she and Erik had living quarters. Everyone else that was a part of the show lived offsite, either in the supplied dormitory housing or in privately-secured homes. She passed the dressing rooms, one for the men, one for the women. They were spacious and simple, built for function. There were three luxurious rooms for guest performers, which were hardly ever used.

The air was chilly, and her nightgown provided no protection from the draft. She hurried to his room, wishing she had thought to grab her robe.

His door was closed, unsurprisingly, but she heard rustling inside. Holding her breath, she extinguished the light and knelt down to look through the door's keyhole.

Inside, Erik was fully dressed in one of his elegant tuxes. His back was to her, as he sat at his piano. He seemed frustrated, as if he was trying to compose but was unable to solidify the melody. One of his hands raked over the top of his head, through the unnaturally thick black hair. She could see that he was, as always, wearing his mask. Strange, that he would still wear it in a locked room…in solitude.

"Eight long years living a mere façade of life. Eight long years wasting my time on smoke and noise…"

She exhaled and listened to him sing the plaintive tune. Was this the song he had been writing?

He stood from the piano's bench and made his way toward the wall with the curtain. Meg's heart began to pound, at the possibility of finally being able to see what was hidden behind it. She had been in his room many times, but never alone, never without his permission; and some sage part of her mind knew better than to ask him to share that secret with her. He grabbed the tassel and pulled, simultaneously singing.

"My Christine, my Christine…lost and gone, lost and gone…"

Meg blinked. On the wall was a large portrait of her former friend. Christine's beauty was done justice by the artist. She was sure that the Phantom had demanded perfection for the image of his songstress. Meg found herself wondering if her friend still had the youthful beauty that the painting boasted.

He had halted his singing, as he stared at…_her_. At his monument to Christine. Meg started to stand, feeling satisfaction but not relief. She now knew what he kept hidden from her. But why?

"The day starts," he sang. Meg quickly resumed her spying position. "The day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in, pacing the floor. The moments creep, yet I can't bear to sleep…'til I hear you sing once more."

She listened to him bemoan his current state. The hurt that she felt magnified with every line he sang. Eight years…and he _still_ wasn't over his precious Christine. What had he said to her that first night on the ship? It was so long ago, but she remembered. A "poor replacement." Meg was, essentially, a substitute for Christine. He had never taken it back.

"Let hopes pass, let dreams pass, let them die! Without you, what are they for? I'll always feel no more than halfway real, 'til I hear you sing once more!"

She couldn't be sure when she had started crying, but now she registered the wetness on her cheeks. It was clear that she was still a poor replacement. Still a consolation prize that held no real value. If she was honest with herself, she had always been. He felt nothing for her. Nothing lasting, anyway.

Meg pulled herself up, suddenly weary, and made her way back to her quarters. Her shoulders felt so heavy and her head seemed weighted down.

When she arrived back in her bedroom, she looked over at the copy of _Le Comte de Monte Cristo_ that sat on her nightstand. A sob broke through her lips and she picked it back up. She lovingly stroked the cover and spine. Her fingertips traced the embossed lettering of the title, studying the graceful letters.

Her first purchase in America.

"_Haydee was written for that purpose."_

_"For what purpose?"_

_"To serve as his hope for a new life, unblemished by his painful past."_

_"...So, then...does that make me Haydee?"_

_"Hardly, my dear."_

She opened it to the familiar line waiting for her on the very last page. "_…all human wisdom is summed up in two words: wait and hope.'_"

She walked across the room, threw it into the trash can, crossed back, and fell onto the bed. That night, she cried herself to sleep.

The emotional exhaustion helped her slumber deeply. When she awoke, it was mid-morning. She readied herself for a morning swim, thankful that it was Tuesday; otherwise, she would have been very late in starting her day.

In the theatre, a few workers were repairing set pieces. She rushed past them without acknowledgement, despite their lecherous whistles. Thrown off by the later hour, she hurried all the way to the docks, desperate to resume her routine.

The docks, however, were bustling with people. Some were sightseers, some were workers…all of them were in her way. They cluttered her normally serene atmosphere. She sighed in defeat. Her swim could wait, she supposed.

Instead of heading for home, she walked along the shoreline to the closest pier. Unlike the sea-level docks, the piers stood high above the waterline. Dotted around the protective rail were tourists, fishermen, and seagulls. She found an empty spot and leaned over to look at the sea below.

"Careful, dearie," a grizzled voice called out to her.

She turned toward a man who stared back. He was fishing, and he looked to be about eighty years of age. His white hair and scraggly beard were oddly endearing, but his disturbing her could not go overlooked.

"I beg your pardon?" she questioned him, not letting a hint of her French accent break through.

"It's a long way down. 'Bout sixty feet, or so, I'd say," he looked over the side, and then back at her. "Not that high, really, but the water's quite shallow. You can see the rocks, if you look closely enough. The fall'd kill you."

She stared blankly at him, before glancing over the rail. Indeed, she could see the ominous rocks underneath the surf.

"Right," she muttered. When she looked back at the man, he was already back to tending his line.

The salty wind whipped her hair, as she stared out into the horizon. She suddenly felt displaced. She was not an American, nor was she a Frenchman…not anymore. She was no longer a ballerina, and she would never truly be known as a singer. Her mother was dead, and there was no one on earth who loved her. Not one. What kind of life was that? She was not tied to anything. And with nothing to ground her, what should prevent her from flying off the pier into the afterlife? Maybe she would be reunited with her mother. Maybe she would return as a fish. Either outcome was preferable to the misery of her current situation.

She shook herself. Suicide? She was honestly contemplating suicide? Her eyes refocused on her surroundings.

A passenger liner was slowly making its way into port, most likely from some European location. She smiled when she remembered her journey with the Phantom. It had been two weeks, in those cramped quarters, but so much had changed between them. She needed to remind him of that. She needed to show him that, unlike Christine, she was here, with him. And she needed him. He needed her, too. She just had to be patient.

Sometimes it took a while for someone to look with their heart and not just their eyes.

She walked back to the theatre with a spring in her step.

In New York City, reporters lined the pier where the great ocean liner was expected to dock. The ship would unveil many famous celebrities, but none more anticipated than the reclusive Vicomtess Christine de Chagny nee Daae. She was expected to arrive with her husband, the Vicomte, for her debut in America. The world-famous opera diva had come out of retirement for the opportunity to perform for Mr. Hammerstein, but her arrival was discreet. Mr. Hammerstein only wished to announce her performance once she had arrived in America. Rumors had circulated, though, and a sizeable press circuit waited for the Vicomte and his wife to come down the gangplank.

Meanwhile, Meg arrived back to the theatre just in time to see Fleck leaning out of the horseless carriage.

"Will you hurry up! We need to leave NOW!"

"Bonjour, Fleck!" Meg called out. "Where are you-"

"I'm coming!" a male voice answered. Gangle dashed out of the theatre, turning back to yell out, "Squelch!"

Squelch soon emerged, calmly walking toward the vehicle. He smiled and waved at his favorite girl, Miss Addie. Meg waved back, with a puzzled look frozen on her face.

Before she could ask where they were going, Gangle hopped into the cab and pulled the large tattooed man in behind him. The carriage took off in a hurry, and Meg raised an eyebrow in utter confusion. She dismissed the strange behavior of the trio away easily. Obviously, "Mr. Y" had requested them to run an errand. Fleck took any task given to her by the producer _very_ seriously, striving to always be in his good graces. Gangle was more flighty. Sometimes he was eager to please the creator of _Phantasma_, but at other times he acted resentful of his servant-like position. Squelch just followed wherever the other two went.

Meg walked back to her room and changed into rehearsal clothing. Adjacent to her room was a small practice studio with mirrors and a barre. It had been too long since she had gone through her classic warm-ups and exercises. She took her time, meticulously correcting every placement, from her hands to her feet. She couldn't go _en pointe_; her feet were no longer accustomed to the strain. But maybe she could work back up to it…

"Addie! Are you seriously _dancing_ on your day off? What shall I do with you?" one of her dancers, Ellie, teased.

"It's just a little exercise. It helps me relax-"

"Anyway, so, you're French, right?"

Meg blinked at the sudden change in conversation. "I…yes, I'm from France."

"Have you been to Paris?"

The former ballerina smiled. "Yes," she softly spoke.

"You lucky girl! What I wouldn't give to go there, someday!"

Meg felt her cheeks flush. "Yes, you should. It's lovely." She continued her exercises, struggling to concentrate on counting.

"Anyway… gee! Listen to me! I always get lost in my own conversation!" Ellie openly laughed at her frivolity. "What I came to ask you is whether or not you've heard of the French people that are coming to New York. Do you know 'em?"

"French people? I imagine there will be many 'French people' arriving by boat. How else are they to travel?"

"No," Ellie sighed. "These people are like, royalty, or something." She looked perplexed. "What is a Vicount, anyway?"

Meg shook her head. "A _vicomte_ is part of the nobility. A count, basically. Not royalty, technically." She let go of the barre and turned to her friend. "Who, exactly, is it?"

"Some French count and his wife. She's some famous opera singer, or something." Ellie's eyes glassed over dreamily. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be married to some rich French man!"

The color drained from Meg's cheeks as she took in the information.

"Do you remember either of their names?"

Ellie snapped back to attention.

"I don't remember the man's name, something exotic, but I think they said his wife's name is 'Christine'."

The color drained from Meg's face, and she could not respond immediately. Her mind raced and she felt such perplexing, conflicting emotions.

_After all these years…Christine! She will have news of Mama! I will see my dear old friend, again! Erik…does he know? Surely, he must. Will he try to see her? What will happen if-_

"Hello?! Addie!"

Meg squinted at Ellie, trying to see past her thoughts.

"I asked if you'd heard of her! Have you? Do know who this Countess is?"

"I-" Meg hesitated. Volunteering any information about her past, she had found, only led to more questions. And those questions became more and more intrusive. She shook her head, instead, at her friend. "I doubt I've heard of her. I've been away from France for so long…"

"Well, I can't wait to see what this dame looks like! I'll bet she'll be wearing all of the newest fashions from Paris! Or, who knows? Maybe she'll be another ugly rich woman who happens to have the right pedigree, huh?"

Meg smiled tightly, not wishing to hear unflattering statements about her friend, but also unable to jump to her aid.

"Perhaps. I have to be going," Meg excused herself and abruptly exited the room.

"Bye?" she heard Ellie call out behind her.

Entering her own room, Meg turned and locked herself in. Her heart was beating swiftly inside her chest. She felt quite anxious, knowing that some event was on the horizon; she felt quite certain that, whatever came to pass, none of it would be under her control.


	2. Dear Old Friends

"G'morning, Addie!" Suzanne, one of the chorus girls called out.

Meg had arrived to rehearsal on Wednesday to find the entire place buzzing with excitement.

"Have you met them, yet?" her friend asked.

"Met them? Who?"

"The opera singer! Christine de Chagny?"

Meg's heart dropped in her chest. _Christine is here?_ She turned on her heel, without answering Suzanne, and walked back to the hallway. She had passed the three guest rooms without paying them any attention. She was used to them being empty. But now she distinctly heard voices coming from one of the closed doors.

She bit her lip in contemplation, but, despite her misgivings, she knocked.

"_S'il vous plait, venez_!" a deep voice commanded. Meg smiled, hearing her native language. She looked forward to being able to converse in fluent French, again. But she did not look forward to the awkwardness that this meeting would contain.

Meg entered and immediately looked into the eyes of her long-lost friend.

"Meg?!" Christine exclaimed in disbelief. "What are you doing here? How – What happened? We searched _everywhere_ for you!"

"I-" Meg started, then stopped, looking nervously to Raoul. A man who she still hardly knew. "I was trampled in the chaos, trying to escape the _Opera Populaire_, after my mother took you-" she nodded to Raoul, "down to find Christine." She looked back to her old friend. "I was already weak, injured, when something hit me in the head. I think it may have been some falling debris. There were explosions from the fire... Someone must have pulled me to safety. I woke in the care of a priest, and I didn't know who or where I was. I tried regaining my memories, but a physician told me that my memory might not return, due to the damage I sustained.

"I…ended up joining a dance troupe, realizing that I apparently knew how to dance, and I came with them over to New York. Once I was here, my memory began to return, little by little. But I couldn't return to Paris. I had been gone too long, and I couldn't leave my life here. I took this position as lead dancer and choreographer, when _Phantasma_ opened."

Christine raised an eyebrow at the elaborate story. Raoul only seemed moderately interested, but he politely nodded to show sympathy. A little boy sat on a chair at the corner of the room, coloring and ignoring her fabricated plights.

"Raoul, would you mind taking Gustave to Central Park? We've been promising to take him, but I don't think I'll be able to join you. They need me to rehearse here."

Her husband frowned. "Couldn't we go another time, all together?"

"Of course," she placated. "But surely you won't mind my not joining you on this first time out? I promise to come next time."

The boy, Gustave, dropped the colors and paper onto the floor and ran to his father's side.

"Gustave," Christine stopped the boy. "This is Mommy's dear old friend, Meg Gi-"

"Call me Addie," Meg corrected, holding out her hand to the shy lad. He nervously accepted it, shaking hands slowly. "That's the name everyone here knows me by."

"I'm Gustave and I'm six. How old are you?"

Raoul let out an embarrassed laugh. "All right, you! Let's go see this famed park, shall we? Say goodbye to Miss Addie, for now." Father and son held hands and walked toward the door. "I am so happy to see you are well, and that you and Christine have been reunited." Raoul gave her a pitying look, but left without further comment.

Once her husband and child were well out of earshot, she pulled her ballet friend toward the nearest sofa.

"What really happened? I thought you were dead this whole time. How could you not write? We were best friends!"

Meg took a deep breath. "Why are _you_ here? Performing in _this_ show? I heard you were performing for Oscar Hammerstein."

Christine pulled away, looking warily at her former confidant. "I have a terrible feeling that you already know, _dear old friend_." Meg flinched at the accusatory tone.

"He came to you? When?"

"Tell me the truth of how you came to be here, and I shall tell you my story."

"Fine," Meg relented. "The night he took you, the final time, after _Don Juan Triumphant_, I followed my mother and your Vicomte down to the Phantom's lair. It took me too long to find you, though," she reminisced sadly. "By the time I found where he had you, you and Raoul were no longer there. I looked around, shocked that I was actually in the hiding place of the Phantom of the Opera, when he grabbed me from behind."

Christine gasped, placing one dainty hand over her mouth. Meg smiled and tried to shrug off the commiseration.

"We rode to the coast, stowed away on a ship to New York, and I've been with him ever since."

Christine's expressions changed with each segment of information, unable to imagine why the Phantom had taken Meg and why Meg had not, somehow, escaped from his control.

"What do you mean, you've 'been with him ever since?' Why did you not get help? Did he keep you locked up?"

Meg's cheeks reddened at the assault of questions. There was no way she could make Christine understand. Even though, ironically, it was Christine who should understood, more than anyone else, what Meg had gone through.

"It's…hard to say what all happened," she explained with a finality. "At first, he threatened my mother-"

Christine squirmed uncomfortably, and her eyes became misty.

"Then, he gave me a choice: stay by his side and accept his protection and help, or take my chances in a foreign land where I had no contacts or bearing. I think, in the beginning, I assumed that I would, eventually, leave. But I never did. I can't explain why." Meg bit her lip and looked away from her friend's judgmental gaze.

The married woman took her friends hands in her own, which called Meg's attention back to her companion.

"Meg, I don't know how to tell you this…" A tear slipped down one of Christine's flawless cheeks. She did not move to wipe it away. "Your mother…"

"Oh," Meg interrupted, realizing where the conversation was heading. "I know. I heard that she passed away. Two years ago, wasn't it?" Her own tears fell in hot streaks down to her neck. There were no other signs of her distress. No heavy breathing, no shaking, no running nose.

Christine nodded sadly.

"What happened? I was only told that it was complications from an illness."

Erik had not been forthcoming, only giving Meg the barest of facts to relay the news of her mother's untimely death. She had collapsed on the floor, and he had stayed with her, uncertain how to help her through her grief. Ultimately, he had decided to leave her alone, not showing up to her door for the rest of that month.

"She died from an influenza. It was an outbreak. She was actually in London-"

"London?"

"Yes," Christine paused to collect herself. "Raoul and I, we made it out of that labyrinth, and we went straight to his estate in Paris. Your mother showed up at the doorstep the next day, looking absolutely haggard. She had been searching for you all night. If we would have known…

"Anyway, we joined her in her search for you. But we found no trace. We had dozens of people scouring through every corridor and every rafter of the opera, sifting through the smoldering ruins. I did what I could, but so much of the _Opera Populaire_ was destroyed and dangerous to traverse. I called out your name until I was hoarse. But…I couldn't, I'm sorry, I couldn't go back to the Phantom's domain. Raoul and your mother did, though, but they found nothing. A mob of people had arrived, apparently, after you did."

Meg nodded in affirmation. "I heard them behind me," she whispered.

"According to Raoul, the place was in shambles. They looted the Phantom's home, but they did not find him. So, we searched the hospitals, made inquiries with the _gendarme_. Weeks later, we had no idea where you had vanished to. I thought," her voice caught in her throat. "I thought you were dead. I thought you must be. Either drowned in that lake, or perhaps trampled or burned to death and removed to a morgue before being identified." Christine shuddered at such horrific thoughts.

"No, nothing of the sort," Meg joked dryly, through her tears. "Only abducted by the Phantom of the Opera and stolen to the other side of the world."

"Raoul and I married, and, finally, your mother began to live, again. She was never the same, though. She hated being in Paris, but she was terrified that you would reappear the moment she left the city. I accepted a leading role in an opera in Milan, then Naples, then Vienna. I loved performing, but I know that part of me was so desperate to distract myself from everything that had happened."

"I'm happy for you, that you were able to perform as a true _prima donna_. I wish I could have seen you."

Christine smiled graciously, but continued. "Your mother and I corresponded back and forth for a while, but I never returned to Paris. The last time I had a letter from her, she had accepted a position as a ballet matron for The Royal Ballet. She had waited for you for years, without even the slightest hint to your whereabouts."

Meg was still crying, but her heart constricted in her chest with this news.

"She asked me…" Christine paused, looking deeply into her friend's watery eyes. She squeezed Meg's hands lightly and released them to stand. Walking over to a small trunk, she reached inside and removed a small brown parcel. She returned to Meg and handed it to her, before sitting down.

"I think-" Christine hesitated again. "I think that a part of her knew or, at least, hoped that you were still alive. She sent that to me, with that final letter, and she asked me to always keep it with me. She told me to give it to you, if our paths ever crossed. I sent a letter to London, ahead of her, but I don't know if she ever received it. I promised her that I would honor that request. How could I refuse? I wished I could have done more. I wished she had asked more of me. If not for her, Raoul would never have found me."

Meg looked down to the precious box.

"I was notified of her death. We paid for her to have a ceremony at a church close to the Ballet. We weren't able to travel there. I'm so sorry. I can tell you where she is buried, if you'd like to go visit, one day."

The parcel felt hot in her hands, but Meg did not want to open it. Not yet. Not here. _London_, she thought. _Whenever will I be in London? Will Erik let me go there?_

"Thank you," the blonde woman replied, unsure of what else to say.

The pause in conversation lingered, as both ladies sought to find a way to conclude their reunion on a happier note. Meg hastily brushed the wetness from her cheeks and took a deep breath.

"You have a beautiful son," Meg spoke up.

Christine beamed proudly. "He is a little version of his father." She sighed happily, letting her eyes sweep over to the door where her men had exited. "I never thought about being a mother, but I absolutely love it. What about you? Will you be a mother, someday? Do you have anyone special in your life here in America?"

"I don't think I'll be a mother, no," Meg felt her face grow hot, again. "And what of your reasons for being here? What happened?"

"Well," Christine started slowly. "I was asked by Mr. Hammerstein to perform at his new theater. When I arrived in port, the strangest carriage rode up, with no horses!"

Meg smiled grimly, remembering the brief interaction she had with the three emcees the previous day.

"Three people jumped out. Quite an odd little trio. They told me a 'Mr. Y' wanted to meet with me later, and that he had sent the carriage to bring me to my hotel. I started to protest, but Gustave ran ahead and begged to be able to go.

"When we arrived to the hotel, Raoul made sure we were settled, then he left to meet with Mr. Hammerstein. I put Gustave to bed. And then… And then," Christine pursed her lips, visibly flustered. "_He_ came into my room. The Phantom. He somehow found where we were staying and snuck in through one of the balconies."

_Found out, somehow? Erik has enough connections in this city, he most likely had the information before he asked for it._ Meg couldn't help but feel that this was all orchestrated by Erik. _What is he up to?_

"He was so upset, still so upset, after all of these years…" Christine looked toward the door again, as if she was worried the Phantom would be listening on the other side. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "He threatened to take my son, Meg! How could he?"

_He is still the same man. Eight years later, he is still obsessed with her and is willing to be as ruthless as is necessary to get what he wants…what does he want? _

"He asked me to sing for him, for his show. I said no, and that's when he said he would take Gustave! What other choice did I have? I had to agree." Tears threatened to spill from Christine's eyes, yet again. She embraced Meg, seeking solace from her loving friend. Meg reflexively placed her arms around Christine, but it was a far cry from the hugs they gave to each other when they lived in the _Opera Populaire_. "What am I to do? I can't tell Raoul! He knows I have taken this commission, but he doesn't understand why I have delayed Mr. Hammerstein. I can't go through this, again!"

"I might be able to speak to him, for you…"

"The Phantom?"

_She still doesn't know his name,_ Meg realized. She could have divulged that his name was, actually, Erik. But she didn't want to. It was too private. A recessed part of her mind relished the fact that he had not revealed that intimate piece of information to his precious Christine.

"Yes."

The brunette pushed Meg lightly away, leaning away from her for good measure. The look she gave Meg was skeptical and penetrating.

"Why would you have any sway over that madman's behavior?"

"We…work together. His room is a little further down the hall-"

"He lives here?" Christine asked, aghast. Meg didn't respond, so she continued on the same train of thought. "That lanky man – Gangle, is it? – he showed us to this room and said he would return when they were ready for me to rehearse. Wait, where do you stay?"

Meg stared at a vase in the corner of the room, determined not to show the embarrassment she felt on her face. "I live in a room on the other end of the theater."

"What is going on here? I feel like I am in some kind of unbelievable dreamscape," Christine raised her voice. Meg looked nervously back at her. "You disappear from Paris eight years ago, then I find out that you were actually abducted by the Phantom, and now you work _with_ him? What on earth is wrong with you?"

"I did what I had to do," Meg shot back defensively.

"Do you _have_ to stay with him? Now? Return with me. I'll take you to London to visit your mother's grave, then we'll settle somewhere in Europe."

"You have your family, Christine. My mother is dead, and now this," Meg gestured to the room around her, "is my home. My family. I _want_ to perform."

"You can perform _anywhere_, Meg-"

"Not like this," Meg disagreed. "Not as both a choreographer and a leading act of a show."

Christine's jaw dropped and she shook her head in amazement.

"I just don't know what to say," the puzzled brunette admitted. "This is all so surprisingly unfortunate."

Gangle burst through the door, then.

"Two more minutes, until we need you onstage to rehearse."

"Gangle! Really, what bad manners," Meg chastised. "You never enter a room without being granted permission to do so."

The entertainer looked unprepared for the normally sweet Addie's correction. He gave her a nasty look, but he nodded his compliance, before leaving.

The two ladies looked at each other, again. Meg stood and Christine followed suit.

"I will see you later? After my rehearsal?" Christine asked.

"Of course," Meg replied sincerely, smiling for extra measure.

They walked to the door and embraced once more before parting ways. Gangle was waiting outside, and he motioned for the opera singer to follow him. Meg closed Christine's guest room door behind them and watched the two performers make their way down the familiar hallway.

Meg walked in the opposite direction, toward Erik's door. When she arrived, it was locked, as usual, and there was no light emanating from the room. She stared down at the keyhole, where she had, only two nights ago, secretly watched him lament losing Christine. And, now, she was back.

She felt the weight of the package in her hand and returned her attention to the only thing of her mother's that she had left in the world.

The walk back to her room was mostly silent, but she could hear the voice of a soprano songbird echoing lightly through the halls.

"_Love never dies! Love never falters…"_


	3. Only for You

**Hello, all!**

**I did not take the time to describe costumes or set pieces for the _Phantasma_. I would recommend watching the Australian version of "Love Never Dies" to have the same mental images in your head that I had while writing. If not, then just have fun imagining whatever you'd like. But my versions of the POTO characters are from the 2004 movie, not LND.**

**The lyrics are excerpts from ALW's actual songs in the musical.**

* * *

_Dearest Meg,_

_I have to believe you are alive. I feel very strongly that you must be, or else I would have felt your death in my soul. A mother knows.  
__If you are alive, I cannot imagine you would not come to me. Unless you cannot. And that is what plagues my mind.  
__He has you. The Phantom…Erik. That is his true name. I met him when he was only a young boy. I was fourteen, and I pitied him. I hid him in the opera house, but I didn't do much else. I fed him a few times, then left him to fend for himself. I talked with him in the beginning, but then returned to my studies and practicing. I didn't know what to do. I was too young. I had concealed him in a safer place, and I had given him the opportunity to create a new life for himself. But only in the shadows.  
__I am telling you all of this to take the full blame of what you have been through. As I ran up the stone stairwell, after showing the Vicomte the way to find Christine, I had a horrible premonition that Erik would retaliate, if his plans did not play out according to his wishes.  
__I searched for you for days, weeks. And then I waited, hoping you were hidden away somewhere safe.  
__When you didn't return, I suspected he took you. I don't know how he found you, in all of that chaos, but I can imagine that he saw you and acted rashly, as he has been known to do all his life.  
__Do you know the utter agony I feel, knowing that I am the reason for so much ruin? I brought him into our lives. And then, I betrayed his trust. He is not a forgiving soul. I know that better than anyone.  
__I am happy for Christine, that she and her Vicomte are safe and thriving. But I paid too high a price, in helping her lover reach her. I am trusting her with this last errand, though, because I have no choice.  
__If Erik is merciful, if he keeps himself from hurting you…if he realizes that you are innocent in all of this, and that I will suffer enough with having lost you…you may cross paths with Christine, again. Either Erik will let you go, and you will go to her to find me, or Erik will not let you go, but his fiery obsession with her will reunite the two of you, once more. So I place all my hope in those possible outcomes.  
__I am taking a commission in London, to teach at The Royal Ballet. I wish you were joining me. Maybe, someday… I do not think I will like England, much, but I will not be very far from our homeland. If I hear any word of your return, I will be on the next boat back to France.  
_

_I do not know what tactics Erik will use to keep you under his control. I shudder to think of anything unpleasant happening to my darling daughter. But, a word of advice: remember that he has never felt love in his life. Nothing real. He will always be infatuated with Christine, because he believes himself to love her. He believes that he deserves to have these feelings returned, but he knows nothing of giving or receiving love. _

_He has received more than his fair share of betrayal. That is a sentiment that he knows, through and through. And he will betray any and all those who stand between him and Christine. Do not follow in my footsteps. Stay out of his path, as much as possible, if he seeks to steal her back._

_I could not protect you. I am so, very sorry. Please, Meg…please protect yourself._

_If we do not meet again, in this lifetime, I will be watching over you from the heavens.  
__I miss you dearly. I love you always._

Meg's whole body shook, finishing the letter from her late mother. She collapsed onto her bed. Her tears gathered and fell rapidly, threatening to splash upon the paper and erase her mother's final words to her forever. She quickly placed it upon her nightstand, well away from her waterworks.

The other contents of the parcel were still on the table, and she returned to examine each piece more thoroughly. A brooch that had belonged to her mother. It was Meg's favorite, of all of her mother's jewelry. It had a black stone with colorful specks rising to the top, in a glittering array that changed color in different lighting. Around the stone was intricate brass design and accents of small diamonds and sapphires that dotted the many textures surrounding the center stone. There was a ring, as well. Her mother's cameo ring. The ivory image was the profile of some Grecian goddess. She was situated on top of an onyx stone, with gold lacework framing the oval signet. Her mother usually wore it on her smallest finger. Meg couldn't imagine her mother parting with such precious items.

The last item was a picture. The only family picture Meg and her mother had ever taken. Meg was posed with her arms in fourth position and her right leg in _tendu_ in front of her body. Madam Giry stood formally to her side, slightly behind her daughter, with one hand perched on Meg's shoulder. They looked professional, but pleasant. Meg's tears resurfaced, seeing her mother's image. Eight years. She could still see her mother in her mind, but she felt blessed to have a lasting picture of her. She would need to purchase a frame, at her earliest convenience.

"ADDIE!" There was a shout from the other side of her locked door. "WE CAN'T WAIT FOREVER! HURRY UP!"

"I'm coming, Fleck!"

There was no answer, but Meg was certain the small-statured woman was already on her way back to the stage. Before going out to meet the rest of the troupe, she folded the letter and placed it in one of her dresser drawers. The brooch and ring were placed in the jewelry box on Meg's vanity, and she leaned the precious photograph against the vanity's mirror.

After rehearsal concluded, there was time for everyone to prepare for that night's performances. Christine and Meg returned to the lavish guest room, sitting upon the sofa in happier moods. Christine did not mention the parcel, and Meg did not divulge any information about it. They fell into easier conversation, retelling stories from and reminiscing about their days at the _Opera Populaire_, when Raoul and Gustave returned.

"Look at you two!" Raoul exclaimed, holding a very tired boy in his arms. "You look as though you are still dormmates, sharing secrets in each other's confidence!"

"And look at _you_ two!" Christine answered. "You tuckered our little man out! Place him on the bed for a nap, dear, will you?"

Raoul walked straight to the bedroom, while Gustave's eyes stared blankly back at his mother and her friend. Once his son was made comfortable, Raoul reemerged into the living area, sitting down in a chair across from his wife.

"I have a request, now that our schedule in America has been turned on its head," he started seriously. "Jack Astor contacted me, and he invited me to stay in his home in Rhinebeck, which is about 170 kilometers or so north of here. I should like to visit with him, ask about some of the investments he's made in this country, for the next few days. Perhaps through the weekend? Now that I know you have a friend here to be with you, I feel much more comfortable leaving you in such wonderful hands. And we aren't meeting with Hammerstein before Monday, so I have time before that appointment."

Christine's lips pursed in displeasure, but she limited her reaction.

"When would you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning, so that I can see you perform tonight." He looked to Meg, then. "You, too, of course Miss Giry. I look forward to cheering you on, as well."

His wife was conflicted, Meg saw it in her friend's countenance. Something in Christine eyes glinted then, and she smiled at the thought in her head.

"I suppose Gustave would love to see a grand estate and enjoy all of the distractions of the country."

Raoul hesitated. "I think he would, too, my love, but I cannot take him. The long carriage ride there, long odious talks of business, and strangers surrounding him… I think it would be better if he stayed in your care. Is that all right?"

Christine frowned and went to argue.

"We should be happy to host him here," Meg spoke up. "He'll enjoy meeting all of the performers. We're like one big family!" She looked pointedly at the worried mother. "We will keep him safe, of course."

The poor, outnumbered woman could do nothing more than smile grimly at the other two adults.

"Well, I'll leave you, now," Meg explained, while standing and heading for the door. "Someone will be by to bring you an early dinner, and our curtain call is at 5:30. I need to head back to my own room, so that I can get ready for tonight's shows. I'll see you then?"

"Yes, that will be fine," Christine spoke as if in a trance, her mind clouded with unspoken worries. "Goodbye, Meg."

"Remember to call me Addie, outside this room. I don't want everyone here to know of my past self."

Christine's eyes narrowed at this instruction. "I thought you said you were one big _family_," she cruelly chided.

Meg left that alone, nodding defeatedly and leaving the room. Before she left, she noted her friend's sour expression and the Vicomte's bewildered look.

At 5:30, half an hour before the first show of the night, Christine promptly arrived and stood to the side of the stage. The musical director had everyone in the cast warm up their voices together, and he beamed when he heard the guest singer's voice ringing out with perfect pitch and clarity. Meg was on the other side of the stage, singing the warm ups and stretching alongside the chorus girls. She and Christine shared a few furtive glances.

Gangle watched them both with interest, wondering what connection the two possibly shared to warrant Addie sitting with the famous opera diva on the sofa in the guest performer's room.

The first show began, with Gangle, Fleck, and Squelch eerily introducing the audience to the eclectic group of performers. Meg stayed in the wings, with the children from the audience who had been picked to be a part of the opening number. One by one, the young boys were placed on carousel animals, although each animal was no more than a pedestal prop that would be moved in a circle to simulate a real carousel. Christine, having little choice in the matter, let Gustave join the group of boys. Meg hauled him up, too, grunting at the weight.

"Thank you, Miss Addie!" he happily whispered. He had been warned several times to be as silent as possible, because the audience wasn't supposed to know about them. Meg walked to the side of the stage and stood next to her friend, who had her arms folded protectively over her dress.

"This is bizarre," Christine whispered. "Where did he find all of these performers? How on earth did he go from _Don Juan Triumphant_ to…this? Whatever this is?"

Meg bristled a bit. This show was years in the making. She enjoyed the change from the regimented and disciplined ways of ballet in opera.

"He said he would never write another opera. This was a new start, for him," she whispered back.

Christine gave Meg a sidelong eye, again trying to read between the words that were said. She abandoned the conversation and her friend, walking to a spot where she could better see her son. When the cyclist towing the life-sized monkey music box slowly crossed the stage, Christine crossed her arms again, looking less than amused.

Meg looked up to the rafters. She knew that was where Erik usually watched the show, just as he had sometimes done in Paris. It was too dark to see anything. Christine's husband, she saw, was sitting in the front row, off to the side, with an uncomfortable smile plastered on his face. Clearly, he didn't understand the appeal of _Phantasma_ either.

"_Welcome one, and welcome all!  
__Welcome to the Master's ball!"_

When the opening number finished, the children were all escorted back to their parents in the audience, and Gustave was released to his father. The child was still reeling from all of the attention; he sat on his father's lap and kept his wide eyes glued to the stage.

Meg hurried to her mark, in the center of the stage, behind the drawn curtain. She took a breath and posed prettily in anticipation. Then, the curtain was whisked away.

"_Welcome…each and every one,  
__To our festival of fun-"_

The chorus girls peeked out from behind the set pieces onstage and joined Meg in the song.

"_Something notable and new!"_

They returned to their hiding places, leaving Meg alone, again, onstage. She moved tantalizingly, trying not to think about what her demure friend and her sophisticated family might be thinking.

"_We bring glamour from afar,  
__Plus a touch of the bizarre-"_

She winked towards Christine, before the chorus joined in again.

"_And it's only for you!"_

The welcoming number continued, with Meg and the other six dancers strutting and singing flirtatiously. At one point, Suzanne and Ellie held her arms, as she kicked her leg up and leaned back to lengthen her split. After its conclusion, the audience, mostly men, let out a loud burst of applause. Raoul was politely clapping, seated, with Gustave excitedly adding to the praise.

When she looked over to Christine, Meg's friend had her eyebrows raised in astonishment. She clapped without real enthusiasm, looking completely stupefied.

The next acts in the vaudeville show went by quickly in succession, and Christine, the celebrated headliner, was scheduled to sing at the very end. Meg removed her headdress and drank some water, after her number. She looked over to where Christine stood, but she did not join her. Meg assumed she would want to prepare, mentally, for her song. That, or her old friend was still trying to digest the revue style of the show.

Finally, it was time for Christine to take the stage. She stately walked to the center, where a spotlight awaited her. The crowd was hushed, seeming to understand the reverence that her presence warranted.

Meg walked closer to the edge of the wing, leaning against a pillar to enjoy what she knew from experience would be a spectacular performance.

Christine did not disappoint, as her voice swelled to fill the performance hall. Meg heard every lyric. Did Christine know? _Yes, of course she does_, Meg understood. _How could she not know that every word was written about her? Erik couldn't have made it more obvious._

Raoul was captivated by his wife's performance. Meg smiled at the poor fool, who unwittingly was being pulled into the Phantom's trap. She was relieved to see that the handsome Vicomte was still a good match for her friend. He adored her as much as he ever had. The thought warmed Meg's heart, while simultaneously leaving her feeling empty.

The heart-wrenching song ended, simply. Beautifully. As she bowed to the thunderous standing ovation, Gangle, Fleck, and Squelch rushed past Meg with arms full of roses. The three large bouquets were presented to Christine, who looked as though she was about to hold vipers in her hands. Each rose had a black ribbon tied beneath the bloom. She steeled herself and took all three with a strained smile.

It was a barb in Meg's soul. Christine was not their first guest performer. But she was the first to receive roses. _Not just any roses. His roses._

Christine exited the stage, and the ushers set forth to empty the theater to prepare for the next show. Raoul and Gustave were led backstage, to their guest room. Christine stopped before passing Meg. She laid the roses on a set piece beside her, then walked past Meg to rejoin her family.

Meg glanced at the flowers. She knew they would smell lovely.

But they weren't for her.


	4. Fear and Loathing

Wednesday's final show had successfully concluded to rave reviews. The three bouquets of red roses were once again brought out to Christine, and she once again discarded them offstage. She retired to her room, desiring to spend as much time as possible with her husband before his early morning departure to Rhinebeck.

Meg returned to her room, as well, physically and emotionally exhausted from the tumultuous day. After readying herself for bed, she sat at her vanity, brushing out her long hair and staring at her mother's picture. She remembered that day, when the professional photographer came to take promotional pictures. Her mother paid extra for the man to take a picture of only the two of them. Madam Giry made sure that every aspect of the picture would be to her liking, before allowing the photographer to take the single photo.

"Where did you get that?"

The young woman jumped in her seat and looked up to the Phantom's reflection in the mirror. She did not hear him enter. He didn't knock. This was later than he usually arrived. She frowned at this bad omen. She placed the brush on the tabletop and turned in the chair to face him properly. His eyes were narrowed at the photograph, staring over her head.

"Christine gave it to me," she said simply.

His eyes met hers, then. "And you expect me to believe that she had that with her to give to you?"

Meg shot Erik a dirty look as she stood and brushed past him. "I obviously didn't bring it to New York with me. It came in a package from my mother. Apparently, she knew you better than I would have guessed. She instructed Christine to keep it with her always, until fate brought us together, again."

When she turned to face him, she saw that his back was to her and his fists were clenched at his sides. She saw the front of him reflected in the mirror, and he was looking down at the picture once more.

"What else did she have to say?" he practically hissed through his teeth.

"I'm not sure that's any of your business, what my _late_ mother's _final_ words were to her _only_ child," she said explicitly.

Erik's expression softened a bit, but he pressed on.

"You and Christine seem to be having quite the happy reunion." His tone was friendlier, now, light and inquisitive. "What have you spoken about?"

"She told me about last night. When you met her at her hotel and threatened to kidnap her son if she didn't bend to your wishes."

He looked back up in the mirror to meet Meg's disapproving eyes. Turning to face her, he leaned back against the edge of the vanity and crossed his arms.

"I needed her to sing for me. I have no intention of taking the boy."

"Her son," Meg corrected. "Gustave. He has a name. And a father. And it's not you."

"Enough!" He snarled at her.

She sat upon her bed, hands in her lap, staring up at Erik. He took deep breaths, as he glared back down at her. The look he gave her sent a chill down her spine. It wasn't ferocious or hateful…it was dismissive. She felt, strongly, that he was looking through her at that moment, unimpressed with her. Like one sees a dirty window hiding the beauty of a sunset.

"If this ends the way I wish it, this will hopefully be my last visit to your room…at night." He made the cold statement with an air of insincere apology. "I need you to stay out of my way and away from Christine."

"She's my friend," Meg protested. "What am I to do if she wants my company? Tell her that I'm forbidden to talk to her? What are you planning to do, anyway? Why can't you leave-"

"NONE OF MY AFFAIRS ARE YOUR BUSINESS, MEG!" He shouted down at her, as he towered over her smaller form. She cowered in her seated position, and he calmed down when he saw the submissive gesture. "You may meet with Christine in the day. You will NOT speak of me. If she asks you questions about me, or about us, you will steer the conversation onto safer ground. Stay away from her room, after the final show of each night. Is that understood?"

Meg closed her eyes and nodded. Her eyes felt hot, with tears gathering beneath her lids. The salty water pooled in her lashes and fell down her cheeks. She imagined she was in the ocean, swimming in the gently swelling waves. The bed depressed next to her; she opened her eyes to see the Phantom sitting next to her with a pained expression.

"I will always care for you, Meg," Erik told her. "Having your company, your support, your affection…"

He leaned toward her, simultaneously grabbing hold of the back of her neck with one bare hand. She cringed as he kissed her neck with muzzled lips, but she did not stop him. He pulled away, afterward, in an uncharacteristic show of chastity.

"You placed her name in _my_ spot on the marquee," Meg bitterly sobbed. "You removed my solo from the program. And you gave her roses…"

"Yes," he stated seriously. "She is the guest star, of course she receives top billing and recognition."

"We've had other guest performers, before," she shook her head. "You never placed their names above mine or took away any of my numbers. And you never gave any of _them_ flowers."

"What is this about, Meg? Are you upset that Christine shined brighter than you tonight? Are you fearful of her stealing away some of your fame?"

Meg stood and paced her room angrily. Erik stayed on her bed, mystified, and watched her walk about in frustration.

"I cannot _believe_ you would think that of me. Of all of the ridiculous…" she huffed. "If you don't know, by now…if you can't answer those questions on your own…" She stopped in the center of the room and pointed to the door. "Please, get out. Please leave."

She stood, frozen in her spot, and looked away from him, still pointing. He rose from the bed and obediently walked toward the exit, and Meg let her arm fall to her side. He paused, when he was beside her. She did not meet his gaze, so she could not see the mixture of offense and hurt on his face. He left the room, and closed the door behind him.

Meg collapsed to the ground, holding her arms and sobbing quietly.

The next morning, Meg awoke and readied herself to leave for the docks. Being off her swimming schedule for the past two days, she was more than ready to greet the chilly Atlantic. She heard no one in the vicinity, which was commonplace for the theater at this early hour. But, as she closed her door behind her, she heard footsteps approach from across the hall.

"Miss Giry?" The Vicomte called out. "What on earth are you doing up and about?"

Meg smiled politely. "Good morning, sir-"

"Oh, no, Miss Giry! Please, call me Raoul. You are Christine's most cherished friend. I hope we can be a little less formal!"

"Very well," she nodded. "Good morning, Monsieur Raoul." The title and informality sounded odd in her mouth, but she supposed it would have to do if it was what he wished. "I am on my way to the docks. I like to swim in the mornings."

"Swim?" He looked genuinely astonished. "In that freezing ocean? What a way to start one's day!"

"Yes, well, I enjoy the crisp coldness. It soothes sore muscles and energizes me. We have a long weekend ahead of us." She gave a nod of her head and moved to walk away. "Safe travels, and good day to you-"

"Oh, Miss Giry!" he halted her, again. "I was wondering, if it's not too much trouble, Christine seems especially agitated this morning. I can't imagine why. I won't be gone more than three nights. Would you be so kind as to stay with her this morning, until your rehearsal starts?"

Meg sighed in dismay, frustrated that her routine would be thrown off for yet another day. She turned and smiled at the worried husband.

"If my presence will make Christine less anxious, I am happy to oblige."

Raoul thanked her and confidently strode out of the theater to the carriage that awaited him outside. Meg made her way to Christine's room, feeling more uneasy with every step. Her last encounter with the Phantom replayed in her mind. _No talking about Erik, no talking about our involvement, leave Christine alone every night_… So many rules. She paused outside Christine's door, not yet ready to knock. To her surprise, Christine opened the door before Meg gave any indication that she was there.

"Oh! Meg! I didn't expect to see you."

"Who were you hoping to see?"

"Raoul left moments ago, but I was hoping he might come back..."

"I passed him in the hall. He asked me to check on you." She stood, dumbly, waiting for the invitation to enter. Christine stared at her skeptically. "May I come in?" Meg finally asked.

Christine didn't answer verbally, but she stepped away from the doorway and gestured for Meg to come into the room.

Gustave was awake and playing with a painted wooden toy train on the ground. He glanced up at the new arrival, and, upon realizing who it was, jumped up to greet her.

"Miss Addie! Can I be in the show, again?"

Meg chuckled at the young boy's boldness. Before she could answer, he pummeled her with other questions.

"Can I be in another song? Can I be in your song? I liked it! Who is Mister Y? Can I meet him, too?"

"Um, wow!" The blonde woman exclaimed, as Christine bristled with anxiety. "That is quite a lot to take in." She paused thoughtfully before continuing. "Your mother will let you know if you can be in the opening number, again. How about a tour of our theater today? Does that sound like fun?"

"Yes!"

Meg looked to her friend. Christine still looked perturbed, but she nodded her agreement.

"Have you and Gustave had breakfast?"

"Not yet, no," the songstress admitted.

Once more, Gustave spoke out. "I'm hungry!"

Meg held her hand out to the young boy and smiled kindly. "Then, let's go get something from the kitchen. It's as good a place as any to start our tour!"

Later in the morning, after nourishment and exploration, the ladies returned to their rooms to prepare themselves for rehearsal. Because of the three show times, rehearsals on Thursday were mostly slight changes made to existing musical numbers. The show's director had a call sheet for the acts that would be affected. Christine was not needed, apparently, and Meg gritted her teeth, knowing that Erik probably found no fault with _her _performance.

Meg, however, had changes made to her blocking for her song. She took the corrections graciously, but only on the outside.

Rehearsals concluded, and everyone broke to eat lunch before the upcoming performances. Meg ate, dressed for the show, then put on a robe to conceal her costume. Part of her wanted to rest for the remaining hour before their call time, but she reluctantly decided to check on her friend and the boy.

Christine was much calmer, having had the majority of the day to relax and temporarily push her predicament out of her mind. The two of them chatted about the rehearsal Christine had been absent from, and Gustave was on the floor with his art supplies.

"What does he want, Meg?" Christine spoke softly, not wishing to arouse her child's interest.

Meg knew what Christine wanted to know, but she remembered the Phantom's warning. She felt torn between the two parties. She loved Christine, but she had been dependent upon Erik for years. A thought struck her, and she decided to act upon it.

"When we arrived in New York, Er- um, _he_ heard about a sideshow that was struggling to stay in business on Coney Island. He brought me with him to see it, and I don't think I could ever have been sufficiently prepared for what it would be like…"

"It was stranger than _this_?" Christine looked incredulous.

"Christine," Meg chided lightly. "It was _awful_. Pathetic. Upsetting. The 'performers' stared vacantly out at the paying patrons. Some of what we saw was obviously fabricated. Other 'acts' were completely genuine. All of them were treated as aberrations."

Christine looked appropriately sympathetic, but she did not make any moves to speak. Meg took a breath, wondering if revealing more would help her sheltered friend to understand the importance of what Erik had done.

"Do you know about his past? The Phantom's past?"

The brunette curls on Christine's shoulders shook along with her head. "I think he mentioned that his mother feared and loathed him. And that he wore a mask from a very young age?"

"Er- um, Danton has mentioned little pieces here and there, over the years. And my mother gave me some information, as well, in a letter within the package you brought to me."

"Danton?"

_Of course Christine would catch that…_

"That's the name he goes by – the Phantom."

"Danton." Christine looked down as she said the name, again. Her brow furrowed in distaste, trying to pair the normal name to the abnormal figure.

"Christine," Meg called out to the woman again, seeking to regain her friend's attention. The story had to be finished. "He was raised only for a short time by his unfeeling mother. He doesn't know more about his origins than that. She sold him to a man who ran a traveling sideshow; it's not possible that his mother had his best interests at heart. The owner was cruel, and he beat Er-Danton into submission. The mask he wore was a small burlap sack with eye holes cut into it. He slept in a cage, on a straw bed. Like an animal.

"That was how my mother first met him. She was fourteen, already in the corps, and the Phantom was just a boy. He was called "The Devil's Child," one of the main attractions. She helped him escape, though I'm not sure how. She told me that she took him to the bowels of the _Opera_ _Populaire_, but she didn't know what to do with him. She ultimately abandoned him, too, so that he was forced to survive on his own. When he took up the persona of the Opera Ghost, she must've agreed to pass on his correspondence, feeling guilty for her neglecting him all those years."

Meg finished abruptly, and Christine was left with an odd expression on her face. The bewilderment melted away, as the seconds passed, and a new realization dawned upon her countenance.

"Did your mother _know_? The entire time?" Christine gritted her teeth, in an effort to control her volume, but the venom in her voice was noted by both Meg and Gustave. The latter looked up with wide eyes, then returned to his art in relief that his mother's anger wasn't directed at him. "Gustave? Would you please take your drawings to the bedroom? Please? Miss Addie and I are almost done. We need to finish talking alone."

The boy obediently took up his things and walked to the adjoining room. Meg waited until he was out of earshot to speak.

"Did my mother know what?"

"Did…your…mother…know…that the Phantom of the Opera, this _Danton_, was my 'Angel of Music?' Did she allow me to be _abducted_ by him, TWICE, without giving me the chance to know that I was being manipulated by a known _madman_?"

"Madman…" Meg repeated quietly, sadly. "I have told you everything I know of his wretched past. Do you still harbor such strong resentment toward him?"

"Meg, he _killed_. Piangi. Buquet."

The former _prima_ _ballerina_ cringed at the last name, as well as at the memory of both horrific deaths.

"That was a long time ago," Meg answered weakly. "He has changed…in some ways."

Christine looked at her in disbelief. She shook her head, again, at Meg's defense of the Phantom. Her eyes narrowed judgmentally at the friend whom she still loved but no longer knew.

"I cannot believe you forgave him so easily. What did he do to you? How can I help you? I know what it is like to lose one's will to that maniac..." Christine grabbed Meg's hands, then, but Meg wrenched them away and stood up from the sofa.

The act of recoil, and the awkward silence that followed, placed a chasm between the friends.

_The more we speak, the more insurmountable the distance between us grows,_ Meg thought remorsefully. _Absence is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, but I think that there's a reason the reuniting of dear old friends is not spoken of with such ardent language._

Meg looked at the mantel clock in the room and almost let out a loud sigh of relief. "I must be going. We'll have our first curtain call in less than twenty minutes. Someone will be by with your dinner after this first show time. I need to start warming up."

Christine gave her a worried, pitying look. She stayed seated, watching Meg inch toward the door. Before grabbing the handle, the blonde turned around to make a departing statement.

"He was as shattered as I was, seeing this place, this show, rip apart the souls of the poor people involved. As soon as he was able, he bought it and improved every aspect. From the treatment of the performers, who are now paid fair wages, to the design and artistry of this very building."

Meg looked around the lavish room. Erik had not bothered with many of the details, she knew. The furniture, the mantel clock, the bedding…but he made sure that the person he had hired knew exactly what they were doing. Not that Christine would care.

"Our little show may seem 'bizarre' to you, but it is the culmination of _years_ of a passion project. It takes what is unwanted, unloved, and unappreciated and shows that there is still beauty underneath."

Finished with her lecture, Meg left the room without a farewell. Christine was silent through it all, left dumbstruck by a woman who was clearly too much under the Phantom's spell to see her world clearly.


	5. Lust for Flesh

Two of the three shows for Thursday's schedule were done, and Meg had yet to speak to Christine. The famous singer stayed close to her son, only parting with Gustave when Meg escorted him to and from the opening number. Every performer enjoyed the boy's enthusiasm, as well as his natural stage presence and musicality. Gustave was enthralled with every part of the show. And when it was Christine's turn to sing, Meg dutifully watched over the boy from the wings.

Fresh bouquets of red roses were ready for Christine after each performance, black ribbons and all. Consistent in her sentiment, the diva accepted the bouquets in front of the audience, and discarded them offstage.

The final show of the night began, and Meg felt especially antsy. Her number with the chorus girls was second on the queue, and there were many more acts until she would be needed to watch Gustave. She left the side of the stage and returned to her room to freshen up and take a moment of rest from the hullabaloo of the performance.

Erik was waiting in her room, invading her personal space, holding the picture he had been staring at the night before. He looked up, as she entered, slightly surprised.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"I wasn't expecting you until after the final bows," he admitted, "but I suppose this will do."

He returned the picture to where he had found it, then walked closer to Meg. She, in turn, folded her arms protectively under her chest and waited for him to explain himself.

"You disobeyed my very clear instruction: to not speak of me to Christine."

She scoffed at this accusation and stared fearlessly back into the Phantom's narrowing eyes.

"I did you a _favor_," Meg admonished him. "She didn't understand any of this." The dancer gestured with one graceful movement toward the stage that lay past her door. "I explained your reasons, tactfully, while _defending_ your decisions to purchase and operate this show. I told her that I supported your doing so."

Shaking her head in frustration, she took a breath but did not give him the chance to respond.

"Honestly," she said while turning away from him to check her makeup in the vanity. "I don't know why I defend you at all. She's right, you know." Meg whipped around, then, and leaned against the vanity's tabletop. "You have murdered, you have injured, you have threatened, you have abducted, and you've held no regard for the wishes of others." She let the words fall out from her mouth, no filter to soften the blows.

"I have bent to your wishes, Meg, time and time again," he responded, while aggressively taking a step closer to her.

Meg was completely flummoxed by his answer. "You truly believe that? That you have _ever_ bent to my wishes?" She saw her own confusion matched in his eyes. _He actually does! Incredible!_ "I have only lived within _your_ will, for these past eight years, Erik! The choices I was able to make were small and insignificant compared to all of your grand schemes!"

He took a step back and contemplated what was said.

"I never thought you held such a poor opinion of me. I have highly valued your companionship," he whispered back.

"I don't have a 'poor opinion' of you, Erik. Although heaven knows I should." Meg looked toward the door. The silence between the room's occupants allowed for Meg to hear enough of the orchestra to know where in the show they currently were. She still had time to get back to Christine and Gustave.

"Why did you tell her my name is Danton?" He had the same harrowing look in his eyes. Dismissive. Disappointed. Unimpressed.

"That's the name you are called, here, legally," she shrugged. The real answer was too complicated for her to divulge.

"Not by you," he countered.

"No," she smiled sadly and looked deeply into his eyes…remembering. "I asked you for your name, and you shared it with me."

"Yes."

"Why haven't you given it to Christine?"

He frowned and turned his head toward the door. "I will."

Meg nodded, knowing that Erik could see her out of the corner of his eye. "I have to get back to Christine. To watch Gustave," she explained.

She stood and passed him, feeling him fall in step behind her. But she didn't look back. Her eyes were watery, but she tried to focus on the music that played ahead of her, willing the tears not to fall. The door closed behind her, and she could hear the Phantom follow her.

But, as she neared the stage, the footsteps disappeared in the cacophony of the show. She turned around, and Erik was nowhere to be seen. Either he was preparing to watch Christine from some unknown spot or he was on his way back to his own rooms.

Meg saw Christine on the side of the stage, holding Gustave. She looked around, most likely searching for Meg to arrive, while swaying the tired boy in her arms. Meg hurried to where she stood, and Christine finally looked relieved. The blonde ballerina gently pulled the boy from his mother, and he showed no sign of protest. Instead, he let his head fall upon Meg's shoulder and his body slumped onto her petite form. Christine looked toward the stage, still wary of speaking to her friend.

"Would you like me to take him back to your room and put him in bed?" Meg asked.

Christine looked pleased that Meg had spoken first. She nodded her assent. "Yes, please. If it's not too much trouble."

"Of course not," Meg politely whispered.

The doting mother leaned into her son, to place a kiss on his cheek. "Good night, Gustave. Sweet dreams."

Meg walked slowly with her charge, swaying in her steps to rock the boy to sleep. Arriving to the guest suite they occupied, she carefully maneuvered him to one of her hips, then used her freed hand to open the door. She walked through the parlor, to the bedroom. After placing him in the plush bed, she removed his shoes and pulled the cover over him. If Christine wanted to change him into night clothes, she could do so when she came back to her room. Gustave curled onto his side and fell into a deeper sleep, while Meg went to sit in the parlor.

It wasn't more than fifteen minutes, before Christine walked through the door. Meg stood to greet her.

"I didn't mean for you to stay here with him, but I appreciate it, Meg. I'm sorry it caused you to miss the curtain call."

"No one missed my presence," Meg said seriously. She remembered the Phantom's instruction, then. To not be near Christine after the final performance of the night. "If you'll please excuse me, I need to go change." She walked toward the door. Her dear friend did not follow.

"Good night, Christine," Meg cordially added at the door.

Christine felt guilt niggling at her heart, for not being more supportive of her friend. She looked toward the closed door and thought about accompanying Meg to wherever her room was. Smoothing over the awkwardness between them. Reclaiming their friendship. But she went to check on her son, instead.

Gustave was fast asleep, and Christine noted that Meg had left him fully dressed. She thought about putting him in a nightshirt, but he looked too comfortable to disturb.

She changed into her nightgown and robe, undoing her hair and washing her face. Ready for bed, she thought about having a cup of tea to calm her nerves. After kissing her precious son one more time, she left the bedroom.

In the parlor, bouquets of red roses with black ribbons tied under the buds surrounded the room. Each bouquet was arranged in a crystal vase, which reflected the lamplight and fire's glow in a glittering array around the room.

Christine gasped at the overwhelming sight. There was a tea service sitting on the broad table next to the sofa. And, sitting on a nearby chair, as if he were a welcome guest, was the Phantom himself.

If she was the type of woman who swore, Christine knew that this would be an occasion for it.

_I should have known that he wouldn't leave me alone, _she thought with dismay. _Raoul leaves, and he is in my room the same night._

"I would appreciate it," he began, "if you would accept the beautiful bouquets for more than the few seconds it takes to leave the stage."

He remained seated, watching her steadily. Christine stood frozen in front of the closed bedroom door. As far from the Phantom as she could be.

"I don't _want_ them," she replied icily. "I don't want any of this."

The Phantom sighed and leaned toward the tea tray. He poured them each a cup.

"Sit down," he commanded. "Please." She stood stoically, giving no indication of moving to a chair. "Sit _down_," he repeated, "or I shall raise my voice and wake the boy. I don't think we need to involve him in our conversation, do we?"

Christine reluctantly sat at the chair on the opposite end of the table. The strained positioning of their bodies reflected true discomfort. It was a far cry from the intimate seating of Meg and Christine on the sofa together.

"Now, then," he continued, satisfied by her proximity. "Have some tea." He handed the cup and saucer to his former protégé, who gingerly took the fragile pieces without allowing their hands to touch. He took a sip out of his own cup, but Christine merely held hers in her lap.

"What do you think of the song I wrote for you?"

"It's…fine," she answered with hesitation.

The Phantom, it seemed, was unhappy with the brief answer. "I'm sure you can do better than that." Another sip. "Do you not like it?"

Christine pursed her lips and widened her eyes in anger. "I would look upon it more favorably, if I hadn't been _coerced_ into singing it for a man who manipulated me, set me free, and now, once again, has me under his control." He looked furious, but she continued. "You let Raoul go. You let me go. We are happy! Why can't you leave us be?"

"I was mistaken, all those years ago," he muttered. "I was inconsolable, after you unmasked me the first time. I flew off the handle, and I scared you away. I wish I hadn't, but I cannot change what is in the past." He placed his teacup on the table and leaned closer to her. "I wish to change my future. Our future," he amended.

"Change our future?" she responded, incredulous at the insinuation. "Change it to _what_? I am happily married with a son! I live in Europe. I have retired from the theatre. What part of that am I supposed to change?"

Erik took a deep breath. He needed to coax her to his will gently. Forcing her would not do. She would be lost to him, again.

"Christine," he spoke softer, now. "Your talent is unmatched. Your voice soothes the soul. The voice that_ I_ trained. I would like for you to continue to sing…for me."

She sat back in the chair. The warmth of the teacup was beginning to grow cold. _What can I say to make him understand? How do I refuse this madman without incurring his wrath?_

"Do you know anything about my past with Raoul?" she cautiously asked.

The Phantom looked annoyed by the tangent to their conversation, but he did not interrupt her.

"When I was a little girl, my father used to take me to the sea, frequently. One spring, I met Raoul. He was there with his parents. My scarf flew off my neck and into the surf. I ran after it and apparently caught his attention. He ran past me and made a big show about rescuing it from the waves. We were inseparable, from that moment on. Every time my father and I returned, I made sure to write Raoul of when I would be there. He made sure that his family coordinated their visits with our own.

"Over the years, we grew to love each other. Although we didn't understand romantic attachment, we cared deeply for one another. When we were reunited at the _Opera Populaire_, those intimate feelings were reignited and they…matured. It may have seemed quick to those around us…to you, too, perhaps…but it was all too easy for us to pick up our relationship from the closeness we had once felt." She looked away, when speaking the latter part of the sentence, reminiscing about the early pangs of love she had felt in her heart for her now husband.

"I agreed to marry Raoul, not to spite you, not to flee my life. I loved him. And I still do. He is the light in my life." She looked up to the Phantom after this statement of truth. "You once sang to me of the beauty of darkness…"

He was staring back at her, obviously distressed by her words.

"Meg mentioned that this show of yours strives to show…what were the words she used?" Christine thought on that for a moment, desiring to quote her friend accurately. "I think it was… the 'beauty underneath'?"

Erik did not confirm or deny the comparison, but his head tilted up in interest.

"I don't _want_ to live in the darkness. I don't want to be a part of…this. I just want my family, my _life_. You showed deference to my wishes once before, long ago. Can you do so, again?"

"If your precious Vicomte hadn't interrupted my plans, things would have turned out differently," the Phantom insisted.

Christine shook her head remorsefully. "Do you remember that night in your realm? I told you that I gave you my mind blindly."

"I remember, _vividly_," he hissed.

"You had my mind, at one time," she discarded the teacup and saucer to the table, opposite his, cold and untouched. "You never had my heart. And you never shall."

The words came out with an icy finality. Erik stood, angrily towering over her. She met his stare from her seated position, unafraid of the vexation directed her way. He turned from the table, from her, and strode quickly to the door. He faced her, again, before leaving.

"You have four shows, tomorrow, my angel," he possessively countered. "Get some sleep, and do try to be kinder to me during our next meeting."

"Good night, then…_Danton_," she said, mockingly.

He clenched his jaw, but he did not correct her. That name sounded so foreign to him, although he had chosen it for his new identity. No one used it. But it was preferable to hearing the woman he loved say his true name in such a spiteful tone. He stormed out of the room and paused, enraged at Christine's candor. The hallway was dimly it and completely empty. He started walking back to his room, a short distance away; but something within him caused him to stop in his tracks and seek a new destination.

He knocked at Meg's door, then listened to hear any signs of movement. He could see, looking at the ground, that there was no light emanating from her room. From inside, unsteady footsteps made their way closer to where he stood, almost imperceptible to the ear.

The door opened, and Meg blinked at the irate Phantom in front of her, unable to properly register what was going on. Her eyes were still heavy from sleep, but she stepped back and allowed him entry. Erik wondered if part of her accepted the late interaction as a part of a dream.

He swooped in, then, and took her in his arms to kiss her aggressively along her neck and jawline. She gasped in surprise.

"E-Erik?" she huskily panted out.

"Shhhhh…" he directed at her.

The room was completely dark, not allowing for even a silhouette to be seen. Erik pulled at her nightgown, removing the garment and all of her vestments until she was completely bare. He knew her bedroom well enough to find her bed, which they both collapsed upon.

He nipped impatiently at her, shushing her cries and finally silencing her mewling noises with his hand. She attempted to use her hands to pull it away from her mouth, but he held fast and simultaneously freed his length. He plunged into her in one swift movement. She screamed in a pleasurable way, forgetting about the offense of his hand and letting her arms fall back above her head.

He was usually gentle in his ministrations, with incredible endurance, but tonight he took her roughly. The experience wasn't altogether unpleasant, but Erik could tell that she was, in at least some small way, fearful of the man who was acting more like a beast. _That's what I am, is it not? A monster. A hellspawn._

Taking a breath, he stopped while sheathed inside her and removed his hand from her mouth. Both of his hands found hers and he interlocked their fingers. He moved more slowly, pushing himself all the way into her divine cavity, while she breathed heavily. He was pleased that she was controlling her wanton moans, and his arousal quickened his pace.

Usually, he waited for her to experience at least one pleasurable climax, before seeking his own, but not tonight. He needed it too much. He thought of Christine, his angel, his love. He saw her face in the darkness, writhing and gasping beneath him. Bucking into his thrusts and encircling her arms and legs around him to press their bodies together. Her beautiful brown curls splayed on the pillow. Sweat glistening her brow. Her mouth open and ready to release a beautiful sound of heightened passion…

"_My_ angel! My _Christine_!"

He finished inside her, relishing the intimacy and contact.

But, when it was over, his eyes saw only darkness. He pulled away from Meg and refastened his pants. Before she could say a word, he left the room and returned to his own quarters.

Back in his room, the guilt consumed him. He had used Meg. And he was sure that she knew it. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her. She deserved better than that. Better than him. But, in all of these years, she had never asked to leave. She had the talent to perform on Broadway, but she remained in _Phantasma_.

_Why?_

His heart was hurting, so he placed his right hand against his chest. Meg would know that he had used her, once again, as a substitute for the woman he truly wanted.

_She deserves better…but not from me._

He took off his mask and threw it at the mirror in his room. It bounced off, unaffected, and rested where it hit the floor. Erik stared at his reflection.

The monster stared back.


	6. Same as Then

**This chapter features lyrics from "Ten Long Years," from the Australian production of LND. I have changed some of the words in order to make it a duet. There are also (unaltered) lyrics from "Angel of Music." Credit where it is due: Glenn Slater, Charles Hart, and Richard Stilgoe.**

* * *

Meg, predictably, was unable to fall asleep, after the Phantom left her room in the middle of the night. The intercourse was comforting, if a little intimidating, but she had welcomed him into her bed. He acted desperate for her, fervent in his desire for her body. But, when it was over, he had removed himself from her room faster than she had thought possible. She was still staring up into darkness, seeing only his shadow against the wall when he had opened the door to leave.

Although his roughness surprised her, she had also been pleased when his pace had suddenly slowed to a more familiar and satisfying rhythm. She didn't know why he wanted her silent, but she played along.

When he took his own pleasure, he had called out Christine's name.

_The last time he did that, _she recalled,_ was our first time together. He was apologetic, afterward. But now, he's done it, again. After all we've been through together…Christine reappears into our lives and he uses me, again._

Bitter tears welled up in her eyes, as the shock of what happened ebbed away.

_I will never let him use me like that again. I will _never_ settle for being a poor man's Christine._

Lying in the dark, she cried hot tears and curled her naked body on her side. She rose, when she had no more tears to shed, and maneuvered to her wardrobe. She pulled a thicker robe out from behind the doors and wrapped it around her like a heavy blanket. The added warmth gave her a small sense of security. She had enough sanity left to make one final, redeeming choice before dawn.

Finding one of her lamps in the dark, she illuminated enough of her room to locate and reread her mother's letter to her.

"_He has never felt love in his life. Nothing real. He will always be infatuated with Christine…he knows nothing of giving or receiving love."_

She read and reread the words over and over, seated at the vanity. It was nothing she wanted to hear. It was everything she needed to hear. And her heart continued to shatter.

Meg awoke to a knock at her door. She groggily lifted her head from her forearms. Apparently, sometime after reading her mother's letter, she had fallen asleep sitting up, hunched over her crossed arms on the vanity's table. Her eyes focused on herself in the mirror, and frowned at how disturbing the reflected image was. A thick reddish line went across her forehead, where the blood had pooled from the pressure of her arm. Under her bloodshot eyes, she had baggy skin that hung limply. Tired was an understatement. She needed the cold ocean water to invigorate her…

Another knock sounded out, followed by the familiar voice of Fleck.

"Addie! ADDIE!"

"What, Fleck?" She called out to the demanding woman.

"Do you need any costume repairs? You didn't sign the costumer's sheet!"

_Oh, no, _Meg inwardly groaned. _Missed my window, again._ If Fleck and the costume ladies were already working, the theatre was already populated. _Four days, now._

"No!" Meg responded loudly enough to make her voice carry past the closed door.

"Then let Greta know that, next time, by SIGNING THE SHEET!"

Meg heard Fleck storm off, before waiting for an apology. Not that Meg was awake or inclined enough to apologize to the rude response.

She took some perfumed cream from a jar in a drawer and applied some of it to her face gently, smoothing out the lines that normally did not crease her young face. Looking at the clock in her room, she saw that it was well into the morning. She had less than an hour to make herself presentable and meet with the cast and orchestra to go over corrections and notes. The first of the four Friday shows would start a few hours after that, with time for a proper warm-up and lunch.

Meg sighed and slowly began to dress. The letter had fallen to the floor, sliding almost completely underneath the vanity. Christine's arrival had completely upended Meg's simple, happy life. It wasn't the poor woman's fault that Erik was infatuated with her. But Meg had so little to cling to, and everything was slipping through her fingers. Her professional career, her swimming, her sleep…Erik.

When she arrived at the call, she was greeted with smiles and nods from her castmates. The musical director acknowledged her entry but then immediately looked past her to watch the door. It was then that Meg realized that Christine was not yet there.

Minutes passed, and still no opera diva. Everyone was getting antsy, eager to start the process so that they could be done with it and off to rest before the longer performing day.

"Addie, dear?" the musical director finally spoke up. Meg looked over, respectfully ready to help out in any way she was needed. "Would you mind checking on our star? Remind her of our schedule?"

Meg winced, but she nodded and left the stage hall. As she arrived to the side of the theater that housed guests and Erik himself, she saw that all doors were closed. No noise filtered into the long corridor. She knocked on Christine's door and waited patiently.

The door opened and Gustave appeared. "Oh, hi Miss Addie!"

"Good morning, Gustave," she smiled warmly at the adorable boy. "Where's your mother?"

"Shhh!" he cautioned. Meg's demeanor stiffened, remembering how often she had been shushed by the Phantom during their last encounter. "She's sleeping."

He opened the door, and Meg immediately saw her friend leaning against the arm of the sofa and napping. She was fully dressed for the day, with her hair done. She looked as though she had sat down to rest, but sleep had overtaken her. Meg walked over and lightly approached her.

"Christine?"

The brunette's eyes slowly fluttered open. When she saw Meg, she pulled up sharply and placed a gloved hand above her brow.

"Oh, I'm sorry…I must've fallen asleep. What time is it?"

"Well," Meg calmly spoke, "it's time to go to the stage. We're receiving notes and corrections, today." Christine pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "It shouldn't be long. But we all need to be present."

Christine slowly stood, looking immensely tired, especially compared to her energetic son.

"You'll have a few hours, after we're done," Meg continued, trying to give Christine some good news. "Did you…not sleep well?"

"No," the songbird replied. "I did not."

"Did you and Gustave have breakfast?"

"Yes, a tray and cart was left outside our room, earlier," Christine casually waved her hand in the direction of where the cart and what was left of its contents stood. "I'm sorry you had to come for me. I'm ready."

The three made their way to the stage in silence. Christine's eyes darted around the hall fearfully, while Gustave skipped happily toward his new friends. Meg watched them both; she took her friend's hand in her own, to steady and comfort her.

It reminded Meg of another time she had held Christine's hand to lead her from her fears.

"_Christine, you must have been dreaming.  
__Stories like this can't come true.  
__Christine, you're talking in riddles,  
__And it's not like you…"_

They arrived to their destination, with Christine making humbled apologies for her tardiness. The musical director nodded in acceptance and began the process of giving notes. Some were from himself, some were from Mr. Y. Gustave ran around, greeting and playing with the performers, occasionally receiving a gentle shushing to control his more boisterous outbursts.

"And, finally," the musical director included, "I would like to see both Addie and the Victomtess for a new number that will be previewing tomorrow night."

Christine and Meg looked at each other in shock. Most of the actors on stage looked equally surprised, except for Gangle, who had a knowing smirk on his long face.

Some of the performers left the stage, but most strategically sat in the audience.

The two women walked closer to the orchestra pit, beckoned to do so by the director.

"I realize this is all a bit overwhelming, but I have been assured by Mr. Y that you will both be able to sing and choreograph this short number by tomorrow. As I understand it, Mr. Y only wrote this number in the early hours of this morning." He handed them sheet music with familiar-looking scrawlings. "Can we try to read through it, together?"

There were no musicians in the pit, as they had been dismissed earlier in the day. He sat at the piano with his own musical score, and played the piece at the _legato_ tempo it called for.

Christine began.

"_It seems a hundred years ago,  
__Since you and I were both on show  
__Dancing side by side…  
__Shy and starry-eyed."_

"_The waves now bring you back to me,"_ Meg sang softly, letting her voice fade into silence. Christine's voice rose to respond to Meg's short line.

"_And any day we soon will be  
__Side by side, again.  
__Just like way back then._

"_You seem a thousand miles away,  
__And yet, my ship sets out today.  
__Sails across the sea  
__Bringing you to me!  
__And will you show me all the sights?"_

It was Meg's turn for another brief line of song.

"_Manhattan's noise and Coney's lights!"_

Christine chimed in.

"_Friends, at last, again!  
__Just the same as then!"_

Meg joined the songstress for the last line, to be a fitting conclusion for their duet.

"_Just…like…way…back…then…"_

There was light applause, as the other performers complimented the natural ability of the two talented ladies' sight-reading. Christine and Meg smiled at each other, then they turned their attention back to the director.

"It's…quite nice," Christine whispered. Meg nodded in agreement.

"We'll run through it a few more times, and then we'll have to rehearse it with the orchestra tomorrow morning," the older man instructed. "I'm sorry to say that it will be an early day for you both, tomorrow. And, Addie, Mr. Y wants you to be dancing whenever you aren't singing, so, most of the number. And he mentioned that he would like your choreography to be in the style of classical ballet, but not on pointe. Does that make sense to you?"

"Yes, I think I know what he's asking," Meg said with a strained smile.

"Your costumes for the number are simple, from my understanding, but Greta still needs to see the both of you before the third show call time. I still need to find an appropriate slot in the show to place this song, taking into account both of your costume changes. Now, let's run through the music, again. Try, if you feel ready, to infuse some of that sentimental and wistful emotion that obviously courses through the lyrics. If you please?"

Christine looked over at her son. Gustave was playing pat-a-cake in the wings with Squelch, with Fleck watching them out of boredom. Gangle was nearby, too, with his arms folded and staring back at the young mother.

They finished the impromptu rehearsal and returned separately to their rooms. The new musical number had eaten into their spare time before the show. Now, they had less than two hours until their call time for the first of the four shows. Meg ate in the kitchen, along with some of the other performers, choosing food that would not sit heavy within their stomachs, then rushed to get ready for the show.

Once she was in costume, she found a secluded spot in the wings to work on the choreography for the duet with Christine. _Traditional ballet_, she recalled. _But not en pointe? Not that I could go en pointe, on such short notice…_ She lamented, again, the fact that she had not kept her feet conditioned to do so, as she had been trained.

She thought about the new lyrics and hummed the melody to herself, closing her eyes to search her imagination. Inspiration washed over her, and she slowly pieced together her mother's choreography from both "Hannibal" and "Il Muto," sometimes halving the beats to fit the tempo of the song. She marked the turns, staying in place and only showing the faintest signs of the movements.

"That will be perfect," a voice whispered down from the rafters.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, hearing the Phantom calling down to her. But Meg did not look up or give him any visible acknowledgment. She continued to mark the dance routine, wondering what Christine would think of the familiar choreography.

Eventually, everyone arrived for vocal and physical warm-up before the start of their performances. Meg wandered out from the wings, meeting up with her fellow dancers. The six girls surrounded her excitedly, bombarding her with questions about the duet.

"Have you thought of any steps, yet?"

"Are you happy you get to do ballet? I know you're always inserting your signature style into every one of our routines!"

"Do you know the Vicomte's wife?"

"The song's words make it sound like you two know each other! How do you know her? Is it true, like the song says, that you used to dance together?"

"You said you didn't know her, Addie!" Ellie admonished. "Now you have to tell us _everything_!"

"No wonder you rushed out of the theatre on Wednesday!" Suzanne added.

"I-I-I wasn't sure it was her. Christine is a common enough name. And I knew her before she was married," Meg explained hastily. "We were in the ballet corps for the _Opera Populaire_ in Paris. My mother was our ballet mistress."

"You _lived_ in Paris? Your mother was in charge of the corps for the Paris Opera? Wow!"

"How could you withhold all of this from your friends?"

"Were you not invited to their wedding, then?"

"Christine and I, we were parted. We-we lost contact, and then my mother died. I didn't know how to find my friend. Her coming to New York was a complete surprise, to me," Meg finished. The emotion welling up inside her made her tense and uncomfortable. "Please," she begged. "Let's just get back to our stretching, ladies. None of us want to be sore, going into our longest day tomorrow."

Luckily for Meg, the dancers were satisfied with the answers they received. The seven of them superstitiously formed a circle and lengthened their limbs, flexing and relaxing the muscles they would using.

"Does this mean you both know Mr. Y, too?" Suzanne whispered to Meg, who sat next to her.

"No one has seen this 'Mr. Y,'" Ellie hissed.

"Gangle, Fleck, and Squelch have! And Mr. Bailey!" Suzanne hissed back.

"They _say_ they have. If you want _my_ opinion," Ellie leaned conspiratorially in. Suzanne rolled her eyes. "I think Mr. Bailey _is_ Mr. Y!"

"That's ridiculous, even for you, Ellie," another dancer, Claire spoke up. "Mr. Bailey's only the musical director. He's paid to do a job. He doesn't compose anything original."

"_And_," Suzanne interjected, "you're too new to remember, Ellie, but Mr. Bailey was only hired two years ago. Before that, we had new musical directors every month!"

"I was here from the beginning, too," Mary, a quieter woman added. "Do you remember when Delia saw that shadowed man above us?" Her question was directed at Meg and Suzanne, the only dancers left from the original troupe. "She said he looked menacing and wore a mask. I think _that _was Mr. Y. Who else could it be? Delia left without saying goodbye, soon after that."

"Enough of this talk!" Meg snapped. "Stretch!"

All six pairs of eyes widened at their lead dancer. Addie usually never lost her composure.

Places were called for the first show, and Meg once again helped Gustave onto his carousel animal for the opening number. Then she returned to Christine's side. Both looked straight ahead, out toward the stage.

"I think it's nice that you named him after your father," Meg whispered to Christine. When she looked over, her friend had a smile on her lovely face.

"You remember that my father's name was Gustave?"

"Yes, of course," Meg affirmed. "You went down to the theater chapel frequently. Do you remember the time I found you down there, after your debut in 'Hannibal'?"

"Yes," Christine breathed out and met her blonde friend's gaze.

"I was thinking of that, earlier today, when I took your hand in the hall."

Christine's smile widened and she let out a small snicker. "A bit of déjà vu?"

"You could say that."

The conversation dropped, and both ladies watched the performers eerily move across the stage.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," Meg continued.

"You weren't the only one," Christine admitted. "And, if I'm honest, I didn't know what to believe, either. Until the masquerade."

The song concluded, and Meg hurried to get Gustave and bring him back to his mother. Then she ran to her spot to pose for her welcoming number. Her six companions rushed to their opening positions, as well.

Above the lights, up in the fly tower, the Phantom stood and looked down upon his protégés. He couldn't hear their hushed conversation, but he gathered that they were on friendlier terms.

When Meg moved away from Christine, his eyes followed her. She looked around herself to where the other dancers stood prepared. They exchanged smiles of encouragement, and Erik found himself wondering what the show would have been like, without Meg's presence. She seemed to be the heart of the company.

Watching her choreograph earlier, he had been dismayed when she didn't look up. She always looked up to the rafters to find him. Even after alerting her to his presence with his compliment, she had ignored him. It almost made him want to jump down from his lofty position to confront her coldness.

But he didn't.

He wrote the duet as an apology. He gave her another number, one with Christine. He hoped it would soften both of their hearts toward him. Each of them in their strengths: Christine carrying the melody and Meg adding motion. And their master's composing genius tying everything together.

Meg began her number, exuberant and playful, captivating her audience. She was wonderfully consistent in her talent, Erik credited. A perfect partner in creating _Phantasma_. He couldn't be prouder of her.

He would leave her alone, tonight. Let her rest, unburdened by his presence.

But Christine… His eyes found the brunette beauty standing regally in the wings.

_We will speak again, tonight, and you will succumb to me…Angel._


	7. Ladies in White

"Honestly, what did you imagine this plan of yours would bring about?" Christine asked the Phantom in frustration. "That I would leave my child, my husband, and my life for a man who manipulated me and of whom I know so very little? Keeping in mind, that our first meeting after all these years ended with you threatening to kidnap my son!"

Friday had progressed quickly, having the four shows and new song to commit to memory. After each opening number, Meg returned Gustave to Christine, and the famous singer had gradually become more and more trusting of the other performers interacting with her beloved boy. He would leave his mother's side and go along with whomever was waiting in the wings for their act to begin.

Meg had said little to Christine, although she was friendly and obliging enough; but each show had seen the talented choreographer working by herself, off to the side of the wing, silently marking through dance steps that Christine assumed were meant for their duet. Christine had watched her friend from a distance, not wishing to disturb her process, whilst keeping one eye on Gustave and wherever he wandered. A few of the movements struck a familiar chord in Christine's mind…which then made her remember the operas they had danced together.

_Clever_, Christine smiled to herself, but then that smile quickly faded. _Poor Meg. Her mother would be broken-hearted to see her daughter, now. Dancing provocatively in a side show and under the Phantom's control... _

At the end of the night, the same as the previous night, Meg offered to take Gustave to bed. Christine received unwanted roses and discarded them immediately offstage. And when Meg did not reappear for the curtain call, Christine quickly made her way back to the guest quarters to relieve the blonde ballerina for the night.

And, again, the Phantom had come to call. This time, expecting his attendance, Christine stayed in her costume, perched on the chair that faced the door. She had locked the door, as a clear message, but when she heard the doorknob first turn after Meg's departure, the sound of a key unlocking the barrier soon followed. _Not much of a __deterrent._

_Danton_, she thought as the masked man entered. _What an odd pairing, for a menacing man to have such a non-threatening name._

From there, the conversation had progressed as calmly yet awkwardly as the previous night, with the Phantom's unappreciated compliments and his pleadings for Christine to remain with him. When Christine confronted him with his own plans thrown back in his face, reminding him of his threats to take her son from her, as well as her harsh words of their complicated relationship, it was all he could do to not cross the room and shake her senseless.

But he quelled his anger and allowed Christine to continue her assault upon his character.

"And, furthermore, you kidnap my closest friend, force her to live away from all of her contacts, and now you _still_ won't let her go?"

"Miss Giry is not your concern," he snapped. "She makes her own choices, and she is free to come and go as she pleases."

"But she won't! You have utterly ruined her future prospects, with this corrupt little show of yours. Her mother, God rest her soul, would be rolling in her grave if she knew of Meg's current whereabouts. Scantily-clad in those _detestable_ costumes-"

"Which _she_ designed, and are no more 'scant' than what you both wore during 'Hannibal,'" he pointed out.

Christine was set aback for a moment, hearing that her friend was directly responsible for the outrageous attire.

"We were dancing in a _classical_ opera, _en pointe_, for a highly-respected, _reputable _theater!" she bit back. "Not strutting around a small stage in front of lecherous philistines!"

The Phantom took a breath, trying, once again, to steer the conversation back to where they had started.

"As I've already said, Miss Giry is NOT your concern. She can handle herself," he sharply spoke. "And, if leaving your son is such a concern-"

"Stop right there," Christine warned. The Phantom complied, albeit reluctantly. "I am sorry for you, that you had such a poor excuse for a mother."

He was justly surprised to hear his love speak so frankly about a mother he barely remembered.

"I cannot imagine not having Gustave with me," she went on. "And, if he had been born with a similar affliction to yours, I cannot fathom sending my boy away. Not even if his entire body was horrifically malformed."

It was difficult for the Phantom to keep an unaffected look upon his face. Inside of him, he felt every organ clenching in a sickly way.

"Gustave is as much a part of me as my heart. _That_ is being a mother," she softly stated. "Madam Giry did the same for Meg, holding out hope that her daughter was somewhere in the great wide world, alive, and waiting to be reunited with her. It was why she begged me to keep that package with me, at all times. She hoped, eventually, Meg and I would find our way back to each other."

He perked up in interest, hearing Meg's story confirmed.

"And we did, through the strangest means, but Madam Giry was proved correct, wasn't she? A mother knows. I feel that way about Gustave."

"You don't have to abandon him, Christine," he quietly interrupted. His eyes darted over to the closed door that led to the room where the boy soundly slept. He moved from where he stood and knelt in front of where Christine was seated. She jumped in surprise. "Stay here," he pleaded. "Stay with me, love me, give me the love that I have starved for all my life. You love me, at least in part. I felt it when we kissed. I let you go, but you have haunted me ever since. Please!"

He grabbed at her hands that were perched on her lap, but she pulled away as if she had been burned. He retreated, then, sitting on the sofa as close to her as he could manage. They locked eyes, with very different expressions. His held such longing, such ardent pleading. Hers were evenly beset with pity and frustration.

She finally looked away from him, towards the door where he had entered her room without permission.

"I can't be held responsible for what you felt when we kissed," she shook her head. "I was overcome by my fear. You were threatening the life of the man I loved, the man I _still_ love, and I felt such strong emotions colliding within me. Fear, pity, compassion…desperation…hope…"

The Phantom's eyes were watering, even as his insides were burning. He knew what was coming. She didn't notice his distress.

"But not love. I _never_ felt love. I'm sorry," her voice gradually faded to a whisper. She looked back at him, speaking those final two words with genuine apology and surprise, seeing how miserable he looked.

Christine didn't know what to do, in that moment. _Do I comfort him? Do I usher him out of my room? What is the right decision? What reaction will help and what might anger him further?_ She looked back at the door, with a resigned indifference.

The Phantom stood, and the tears cleared from his eyes. The burning within him relit a passionate fire. He stared down at her, narrowing his eyes in anger. She did not acknowledge him in any visible way. This enraged him further.

"_Six_ shows tomorrow, my angel," he forcefully reminded her, as he strode toward the exit. "And you have an earlier call time, to rehearse your duet with Miss Giry and meet with our seamstress for final alterations of your costume."

He glanced back at her. She sat stiffly, her eyes looking in his direction, but seemingly cutting through him…as if he wasn't there.

"This is not our final conversation, Christine," he promised harshly. "I will not give up on our love so easily."

She looked directly at him, then, narrowing her eyes.

"I will honor our less-than-honorable agreement, performing these last nine shows tomorrow and Sunday. I do this as an apology to you, for not being able to live up to your ridiculous vision of the woman you believed me to be," she countered. "Then, Raoul will return, we will leave Coney Island with Gustave, and we will NEVER see you again."

The Phantom's jaw clenched in fury, and he went to speak, but he was halted by Christine's following statement.

"And, in these next two days, I will convince Meg to leave _with_ us, to rectify the terrible misfortunes you brought upon her."

He bared his teeth in a snarl, especially infuriated with the idea of Meg leaving _Phantasma._

"Perhaps that will be the one beneficial thing to come from all of this mess," she spoke thoughtfully, apathetically. "Meg will finally be returned to her home, with these last eight years being no more than an unpleasant blemish on her past."

"You will regret this night," the Phantom darkly vowed, the words passing through his gritted teeth. Before Christine could react to the thinly-veiled threat, he darted out of the room, stalking back toward his own sleeping quarters.

Christine stared at the closed door, then rose to lock it behind him.

_What else can he do?_ she wondered. _This is not the catacombs of the opera house. He has no upper hand, here. And I'll tell Raoul everything, when he returns. _She turned off the lamps in the room and then went to change for bed. She moved quietly, watching her slumbering son breathe evenly under the covers.

_What can he do?_

Saturday morning started earlier for Christine, Meg, the musicians, and the musical director, Mr. Bailey. Greta and an assistant were also in attendance, bringing the costumes to the performers, so that the alterations and rehearsal could utilize the same window of time before the first performance of the day.

Meg was stretching and doing little exercises, preparing to fully dance what she had choreographed. She watched Christine, who was simultaneously doing vocal exercise warmups, whilst being fitted. To Christine's dismay, the dress was a recreation of the costume that she had worn for the climactic number of "Hannibal," with rich, white fabric, a full skirt with silver starburst embroidered embellishments, and an off-shoulder, plunging neckline.

Meg looked to her own costume, much simpler in design, with a white, firm, corseted top, plain straps, and a full tulle skirt. An obvious imitation of a moment she and Christine had shared together at the _Opera Populaire_. Walking back across the stage, leading Christine from the small underground chapel to her lavish dressing room… Christine sang that she felt she was surrounded by her Angel of Music, even then, and Meg had felt a chill go up her spine as she, too, felt watched by an unknown presence.

Apparently, the Phantom of the Opera was, indeed, watching them from the shadows, as the two girls dressed in white confided in each other.

"Are we ready? Addie? Madam? Can we please begin?" Mr. Bailey asked, impatient to start.

"Would you like me to dance, as well?" Meg asked, more used to hearing herself referred to as Addie than by her true name.

"Not yet, no," the director shook his head. "I would like you to sing alongside the Vicomtess twice through, making sure that we are all on the same page, first."

"Please, you may call me Christine," the songstress called out, with both hands over her breast, and the costumers pinching fabric and making adjustments.

The director smiled, pleased with the noble woman giving him permission to forgo formalities.

"Very well," he said mostly to himself. He raised his baton and the pit resounded with the flowing music of the duet.

Christine and Meg sang, taking their turns, quickly finishing two successful run-throughs of their short song. While Mr. Bailey gave slight corrections in tempo and dynamics to his musicians, Meg gave Christine a brief description of where on the stage she would be moving. Christine nodded in understanding, slowly leading the two seamstresses downstage and to the right, where she could stand and not interfere with the choreography.

Greta and her assistant worked at a harried pace, trying to perfect the ornate costume, while Christine sang. Meg danced around Christine, stopping only when it was her turn to sing, reaching out for her friend during those fleeting moments. Christine suggested, as an ending, for them to hold hands, as a nod to their already joined voices. And, at the last note, both embraced in a harmonious act.

At last, Greta was satisfied with her work, and Christine was led to the dressing room to change back into her robe. The rest of the sewing would be completed before the late morning's performance. As they left the main stage, Meg called out.

"Greta? Do you need me to try on my costume, as well?"

"Nein! I know measurement, schon! Johanna put it in dress room, ja?"

Meg didn't answer, as Greta never waited for a response.

"Are we finished, Mr. Bailey? Do you need anything else?"

"No, no, I think that will work just fine, Addie, thank you." The man waved her off in dismissal, focused on placing the sheet music in the correct order for the weekend's performances.

Meg left the stage and met Christine in the ladies' dressing room. When her friend was decent, they returned to the guest room to eat their breakfast together.

"Gustave?" Christine called out.

The boy was not in the parlor, so the young mother crossed to the opened bedroom door to peer inside.

"Gustave?"

Meg waited patiently, pleased to see that a silver tray and cloche was left on the small dining table in the room.

"Gustave!"

Meg's attention snapped back to Christine, hearing the panic in her friend's voice. The brunette soon reemerged, filled with worry.

"Meg, he's not here!" A sudden awareness came over Christine, and her eyes widened in terror. "Oh no! He's taken him! Meg! He's taken Gustave!"

Meg ran over to her friend, who looked as though she was close to fainting.

"Christine, calm down, I'm sure Gustave is fine-"

"NO, Meg," Christine cried. "You don't understand, he came here, again, last night…the Phantom." Meg cringed, although it was not a surprise. "I angered him, refused him, again. He said before he left…" The mother suddenly trailed off, momentarily catatonic.

Meg shook her hard enough to break her from the trancelike state. "What, Christine? What did he say?"

Christine slowly turned her face to her old friend.

"He said, 'you'll regret this night'…"

Although she knew better than to doubt Erik's ability to follow through on his threats, Meg didn't want to alarm the worried mother further.

"Christine," she spoke soothingly, "it wasn't him. I'll bet Gustave was bored in the room, and we went to find someone to talk to. You know everyone loves him, here."

"Not everyone," the mother contradicted.

"Stay here," Meg calmed her friend, gently leading her to the sofa. Christine sat reflexively, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "I'll go out and find your son. I am absolutely certain he is fine. I'll be back, and we'll all have breakfast together. You'll see. Stay here."

Christine nodded unenthusiastically, staring at the floor.

Meg hurried from the room, first heading to the stage. Some performers were already warming up, anxious to start the longest day of their week. Gustave was nowhere in the small theater. She went from dressing room to dressing room, sweeping the areas with a wide glance, then moving onto the next.

In the kitchen, Gangle, Fleck, and Squelch were partaking from the pantry.

"Have any of you seen Gustave?" Meg questioned breathlessly.

Fleck and Gangle exchanged a knowing look but said nothing. Squelch smiled and nodded.

"G'mornin' Miss Addie! Gustave went with Mr. Y!"

Meg paled, and Fleck and Gangle studied her response.

"The boy was here," Gangle admitted, looking rather bored by the whole ordeal. "We gave him a snack, since he was hungry."

"Then Mr. Y entered," Fleck continued. "We introduced Gustave to him. He offered to show the boy more of the backstage area, and Gustave happily went with him."

Fleck and Gangle went back to eating, ignoring Meg, while Squelch gave her another wide grin.

Meg ran back out. _Where could he have taken him?_ There was one obvious spot, but…no…_Too obvious?_ Meg rushed to the Phantom's chamber.

When she was outside Erik's door, she stooped to look through the keyhole.

Gustave was under the painting of his mother, staring up in awe. Erik was sitting on the piano bench next to the large instrument, his arms folded, and watching the young boy with mild amusement. Meg stood and knocked loudly, knowing that the door would be locked. It was always locked.

In seconds, Erik opened the door, not expecting to find Meg on the other side.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, not wishing to startle Gustave. "Christine is hysterical, worried that you've taken her son, which you have _already threatened to do!_ What were you thinking?"

She went to cross the threshold, but Erik blocked her entry with his larger body.

"How dare you come to _my_ rooms and question me!" he hissed back, drilling into her eyes with his own deathly glare.

"Let me see him!" Meg pushed against Erik. But he held his position.

"Miss Addie!" Gustave called out, behind the larger man.

Erik's eyes shot up in surprise, and he stepped away quickly to let the little boy pass. Gustave shot past his newest friend and latched onto the blonde woman's legs. Meg looked up to Erik and gave him her most disappointed look, before addressing the boy.

"Come on, Gustave," she lightly admonished him. "You've given your mother a terrible fright, running off like that." She took the boy's hand, and he gave a half-hearted pout.

"I went to find my friends," he answered softly.

Meg turned to leave, ignoring Erik and focusing on Gustave. As they made the short trek to his mother's room, Meg heard the door slam behind them.

"GUSTAVE!" Christine screamed in relief, once they had entered the guest room parlor. She fell to the ground on her knees and embraced her son.

"I met Mr. Y! He has a picture of you on his wall! It's so big!"

Christine's eyes flitted up to Meg's, who nodded stiffly in confirmation.

A loud knock rapped on the door, and the two women abruptly turned their heads toward the sound. Before either of them could issue a command, the handle turned and the Phantom entered.

"Mr. Y! You need to show my mommy your picture, too!"


	8. In the Wings

"Let's sit down to eat, shall we?" Erik gave Christine no room to respond, instead passing through the threshold and toward the round dining table that held the silver cloched dish.

Gustave followed the tall man happily, blissfully unaware of the history between the three adults in the room. Meg followed, as well, seating herself next to Erik, while the boy flanked him. Christine was the last to arrive at the table, looking reluctant to obey any of the Phantom's requests.

Erik lifted the cloche to reveal a breakfast platter of fresh fruit slices, toasted breads, and sausage links. Butter pads and ramekins filled with pureed fruit jams were artistically placed on the platter, as well. Gustave hastily grabbed a handful of apple slices, not awaiting his mother's permission.

"What would you like, Christine?" the Phantom gestured to the tray.

"I would like for you to leave me and my son alone, please, _Monsieur __Danton_," she replied calmly, not wishing to alarm the unwitting boy.

Meg looked over at Erik with raised brows, curious as to why her friend chose to use Erik's pseudonym. Erik did not notice Meg's questioning glance, choosing to narrow his eyes at his angel's dismissive comment.

"You may believe that you are only performing for me under duress, or to placate me in some vouchsafe manner, but you _are_ being paid to perform, which makes you under _my_ employ for the duration of this weekend," he pointed out icily.

"And for the weekend, _alone_," she stressed. "We do not need your _money_, sir, as you already know. The contract you drew up as 'Mr. Y' served only to legitimize my delaying Mr. Hammerstein to Raoul."

"Do you know my mommy and daddy?" Gustave's voice interrupted the dueling words. He looked at the mysterious Mr. Y with inquisitive interest.

Erik smiled down to the boy, leaning toward where he sat. Christine's form visibly tensed, while Meg placed a comforting hand on her lap under the table.

"I know your mother," he corrected. "I was the one who taught her to sing." His eyes hardened, then, as they swept back up to his former pupil.

"Had I known the cost, I would have refused your instruction," Christine replied in kind, with equal iciness. "Then again, what impressionable young girl would think to ask an _angel_ of his intentions?"

Erik smirked, unbothered by her cutting reflections.

"Ah, but then, your Vicomte might never have noticed you," he silkily countered. "I _invented_ you, distinguished you amongst your peers. And _he_ only saw you once you were in the spotlight."

Meg removed her hand, then, bristling at the Phantom's cruel description of her and the other dancers at the _Opera Populaire_. She was the _prima ballerina_, not chopped liver. But, having no aptitude for singing, she was only a piece of the background to Erik. And, with Christine back, she had been relegated back to that same unimportant position.

"I recognized Raoul as soon as I saw him, the very moment he was introduced as the new patron, did I not, Meg?" Meg looked up from the table, uncomfortable with being pulled into their argument. Christine glared at her friend expectantly, but continued when Meg did not offer her immediate support. "I would have reintroduced myself to him, at my next opportunity, no matter what role I played."

"He would not have been _seen_ with a chorus girl!"

"HE DOES NOT LOVE ME FOR MY VOICE!"

The heightened voices startled both Meg and Gustave, with the latter looking to the only calm adult left in the room. Meg gave him a sympathetic smile. It did nothing to calm the boy's nerves, as his eyes darted between his mother and the strange man on opposite ends of the table.

Erik's face was bathed in frustration and anger, and Christine also looked unhinged. When the two noticed the cringing expressions of their tablemates, both returned to a more serene visage.

"Raoul loves me. He supports my musical career, but he would happily see me retire and never sing another note on stage…or off," she added, as an afterthought. "You know _nothing_ about me, nothing of my dreams, my wishes. You love my voice. Not me. It's never been about me. And _that_ is not love. That is obsession."

He stood then, his sight never leaving Christine, whose own glare matched his own. Glancing at the mantle clock, he took a moment to breath in and out deeply, before looking back with practiced apathy.

"You have a little over an hour, before your call time," he simply stated. Then he briskly left the room without another word, closing the door behind him.

Christine turned her gaze to Meg. Gustave seemed relieved to have half of the source of tension removed from the table, and he happily set back to task in feeding himself whatever he wished.

"Meg," Christine called out to her friend. The blonde woman gave her a pleading look, lightly nodding toward the young boy. "Fine," the brunette rolled her eyes in frustration. "Addie? What happens next? What are his plans?"

"I honestly don't know," Meg replied, with genuine confusion.

Christine regarded her skeptically. "You always seem to know more about him than you are willing to share, _Addie_."

Meg shrugged. "I only know what he will tell me, and, when it comes to you, I'm afraid he keeps most of his designs to himself."

"He has a giant portrait of me in his room?" she asked with obvious disgust, sharply changing the topic of conversation.

"Yes," Meg quietly confirmed.

"You've seen it?"

The dancer hesitated, then, remembering the circumstances. "Yes."

"You've been in his room?"

"No," Meg shook her head.

"Then how have you seen it?"

"I-" Meg cut herself off. This was a delicate matter. A matter of the heart. Something too vulnerable to share. "I was checking for Gustave, and I spied through the keyhole." Gustave looked up and gave a large grin at the mention of his name.

"You 'spied through the keyhole'?" Christine asked flatly.

Meg finished the toast she had been nibbling at, then wiped the crumbs away with a napkin, before standing.

"I really must be going," she excused herself. "I'll see you at call? We have such a long day. And a late one. I'll see you soon, Gustave!" The boy nodded and kept eating. "And you, too, Christine," she added softly.

The songstress did not reply, staring at her friend's retreating figure with a shrewd expression.

Meg sighed with relief in the hallway, no longer under Christine's scrutiny.

_This is one big mess_, Meg thought sadly. _And I don't know how it will end…I just know that nothing will be the same. Nothing will ever be the same, again._

She reached her room and walked straight in, right into the Phantom's presence.

"Erik!" she exclaimed. "What-"

"You will bring the boy to me after the opening number of the third show," he harshly demanded. "Gangle and Fleck have their instructions, and you will bring Gustave to me on the catwalk from where I frequently watch." He gave her a knowing look, then. "I believe you already know to where I'm referring."

"No!" she forcefully refused. "Christine expects-"

"She won't know he's gone. Not that that's any of your concern."

"What are you going to do to him?" Meg's voice wavered, unexpectedly, finding that the possibilities scared her.

Erik's lip curled in distaste. "I would never harm the boy. And my plans are mine to know, and you to execute! Do as I say, Meg. Or do you wish to try my patience?"

Meg passed by Erik, turning her back to him and angrily pulling at a small compartment door on her vanity.

"I expect your silence is your promise to be obedient to me. Me, who made you out of nothing!"

She spun around in outrage, but he was only a step away from her door. And there was nothing she could say before he was gone.

Meg gritted her teeth, wanting desperately to scream. _Eight years! He STILL doesn't appreciate me! I helped him build this! I was _prima ballerina_ of the Paris Opera, not some uncultured amateur!_

The hour passed by tediously. It was just enough time to mollify Meg, who took great care to focus on her appearance and not on the infuriating conversation that still weighed on her mind. She made her way to the stage for the first of the six shows. Christine caught her eye as she entered, giving a curt nod, and Meg was displeased to see that she was the last to arrive. Gustave sat on the floor with Squelch, playing a hand-clapping game and giggling. Fleck and Gangle were slightly off in the wings, still visible to Mr. Bailey, but away from the rest of the theatre troupe.

After the normal physical and vocal preparation, the cast dispersed to their places for the opening number. Squelch left Gustave with another performer and ran to join the rest of his trio at the front of main valance. The thick red curtain was raised, but the front of the stage was still bathed in darkness. A single spotlight shone straight down, the white light dissipating in the long journey from the top of the theater to where the actors posed below. Gangle began, the effervescent emcee, with Squelch hunched and motionless behind him, and Fleck hidden more easily behind the larger of the two men.

"_Coney Isle…glistening and glimmering!  
__Rising bright…  
__Drenched in light…  
__See it smile…beckoning and shimmering!  
__All a-gleam…  
__Like a dream…"_

Meg watched the three masters of ceremony with mild interest. Gustave was already on a carousel animal, placed by a friend in the cast. Christine approached her, no longer worried about constantly monitoring her son's whereabouts during the performances.

"I'm sorry about this morning…Addie." Christine's tone was polite, but not particularly convincing. "And thank you, for finding Gustave."

Meg nodded, her eyes still on the stage.

"I'm so scared, Meg," the young mother whispered. There was no one near them, at the moment. Most of the cast were already onstage, behind the second curtain or hiding behind travelers, waiting to emerge at their choreographed moment. "I don't trust him. He's taken Gustave once-"

Panic suddenly filled Christine's voice, her volume elevating, and the worried soprano reverted back to the same over-protective mother that she had been three days ago. She craned her neck, trying to see her son over the multitude of performers that surrounded him. As her feet led her instinctively closer to Gustave's place under the carousel tent prop. Meg reached out for her, both gently and firmly, not wishing Christine to interrupt the musical number.

"Christine," she pleaded softly. "He did not _take_ your son. Gustave was right down the hall from you, the entire time we were looking for him. He would never hurt Gustave. I know him well enough to know that."

"He has killed before!" Christine's eyes flew toward the roof of the stage, scanning the darkness for any sign of the Phantom.

"Yes, Buquet and Piangi, all those years ago," Meg acknowledged. "But he's…changed in the time I've been with him. He's not that same man. He's not a murderer."

"He will _always_ be a murderer!" Christine quietly snapped back. "No amount of time can change that fact!"

Meg chose not to argue the matter further, needing to get to her place before her welcoming number. Gustave, thrilled as ever to be included in the show, was gleeful after his short stint onstage, and Meg watched as Squelch led him to his mother. When they reached Christine, she looked relieved to see her son. Gustave asked her something, which made his mother pause, before nodding her answer. The unlikely duo happily pranced away, followed in step by Gangle and Fleck who darted glances at Meg as the foursome ran by.

"_Welcome…each and everyone  
__To our festival of fun!"_

At the end of Meg's number, both she and Christine were expected in the ladies dressing room, to don their newest costumes. Christine looked after Gustave's wellbeing again and was pleased to see him in the back corner of the same wing she occupied, playing an enthusiastic game of jacks on the ground with Squelch. She walked with Meg, satisfied that her son was in too public a place to be in any real danger.

The ladies dressed quickly and silently, with Greta and two others' assistance. Christine's hair was pinned away from her face, with jeweled clips that were almost identical to the starbursts of crystals that had graced her curly locks for her role in "Hannibal." Meg carefully removed her bright pink feathered tutu ensemble and the outrageous headdress that accompanied the look. The white tutu and corset were a perfect fit, although she expected nothing less from Greta and her team. She loosened her hair, running a comb through the curls, until they were flowing golden waves. One of the assistants secured the top half of her hair with a band and then a single white ribbon, while Meg changed her shoes from pink heels to white ballet slippers.

When the girls turned to face each other, they both audibly gasped. Christine's hands flew to her mouth. Meg gave her a sad smile.

"The only thing I'm missing are my pointe shoes," Meg commented quietly.

But not quiet enough for Greta to dismiss as private conversation.

"Was ist das? I have die Ballettschuhe! No one say Spitzenschuhe! No pointe!"

"No, no, I'm sorry, Greta," Meg quickly calmed the older seamstress. "These are perfect. Um, _perfekten_? I was…" She went to explain the comment, but the woman was already onto the next task, shaking her head.

Christine bit her lip to keep from laughing, and Meg allowed herself to chuckle at the misunderstanding. The two old friends left the dressing area, after checking themselves from head to toe.

Back in the wings of stage left, Christine once again checked for Gustave and relaxed when she saw that he was still much occupied in the game with Squelch. They were odd playfellows, to be sure, but she could see that the large man had no ill intentions toward her son.

Meg still had to use the crossover to get to stage right, where she would enter for their number. But, before heading to the back of the wing, she took Christine's hands in her own.

_Her hands were always warmer than mine…and they are warmer, now. Some things never change. _

Christine seemed surprised at the sudden show of affection, but she smiled winningly at her blonde friend and then enveloped her in an embrace.

They exchanged no words, but their parting was mutual. Just as every hug they had shared in Paris, once upon a time.

Meg trotted away, needing to hurry to make it to the other side of the stage. She smiled down at Gustave and Squelch, but they did not notice her. Reaching the other side of the stage, she saw Gangle and Fleck in deep conversation.

_That could mean anything_, she reasoned. _Those two are always butting heads over every decision to be made._

She reached her destination, upstage right, and waited for the music to begin. The stage emptied of the previous act, Sid the Swordsmith, a man who was a well-trained sword-swallower. The audience was not full, but it was never expected for the first performance of a Saturday for the venue to sell-out. Many of the long-standing cast members whined frequently for the morning show to be canceled. Meg was not one to complain, but she had brought the matter before Erik, knowing that Mr. Bailey and the emcee trio would never willingly bring him anything other than good news. And, to Erik's credit, he was contemplating the idea.

The first few notes of the dreamy, languid song played, and Meg twirled and turned onto the stage, heading toward downstage left, where Christine would soon enter.

The singing goddess in white emerged, and the audience, small though it was, appeared to be awestruck by her beauty and opulence. She remained stationary, in an especially bright spotlight downstage left.

"_It seems a hundred years ago,  
__Since you and I were both on show…"_

Meg danced all across the more dimly-lit stage, occasionally sharing the spotlight with her friend. At the end, they held hands and hugged in a more theatrical manner. Not completely disingenuous, but not as heartfelt as the one they had just finished sharing backstage.

They had forgotten to discuss their exit, assuming that they would be given definitive instruction as to what either Mr. Bailey or Mr. Y preferred. They hesitated, during the applause, then turned to the front to give humble bows of appreciation, Meg's left hand encased in Christine's right one. Meg pulled away, back to stage right; Christine in her cumbersome ensemble, stayed in place.

They looked at each other, as their hands slowly pulled apart and dropped to their sides. Each exited the way that they came. Meg gracefully walking upstage right, Christine demurely walking the few paces offstage.

Meg knew Christine would undoubtedly be hurrying back to Greta, in order to change her attire for the final number. She, on the other hand, was finished for the duration of the show, except for the curtain call, but she would keep her current dress on. The soft tulle fell in long layers, down to her knees. The costume was mercifully more comfortable than the stiff features of her more vivid ensemble.

Fleck and Gangle were still talking in hushed voices, but they ceased when Meg drew near.

"What has Mr. Y asked you to do?"

Gangle raised an eyebrow at her question, and Fleck gave her a strained smile.

"We are to see to it that the vicomtess, your _friend_, is reassured of her son's safety," the little woman shared.

_Well, that's hardly helpful,_ Meg thought. "And how will you do that?"

"By doing our job," Gangle answered pointedly. "_We_ will work out the details entrusted to _us_. Why don't you make sure _you_ do the same?"

Meg rolled her eyes, no longer interested in trying to probe either of them for more information. She made her way back, through the crossover, and stopped next to Squelch and Gustave.

"Gustave? Do you want to go say hello to Mommy? And, afterwards, I can show you my room. You haven't seen it, yet!"

Squelch frowned, apparently unhappy to see his friend taken from their game. His eyes darted behind Meg, toward the opposite side of the stage. Gustave jumped up and politely addressed his friend.

"I'll see you after lunch? For the next show?"

"Yes!" the grown man rejoiced. "Do you know how to play checkers?"

"Oh, yes, I'm very good at checkers. I win all the time!"

Meg gave Squelch a nod and held Gustave's hand as they made their way to where Christine was changing.

Entering the room, Christine was already in her final costume, a bejeweled lilac gown with a plunging neckline that was made only slightly more modest with a necklace that had so many large gemstones, that it covered a fair amount of exposed skin. Christine didn't seem to be able to sit down in the form-fitting dress, so the ladies were working around her, removing the many jeweled clips from her curls and working on pinning it into an elegant hairstyle.

"Hi, Mommy!" Gustave called out, which alerted Christine to their presence. "I'm going to go see Miss Addie's room!"

"You are? Well, now," Christine played her part well. "I will do my best not to be jealous. I have yet to be invited to see her room."

"It's smaller than yours," Meg offered as a lame excuse. "Nothing much to see, but I figured Gustave would appreciate the change in scenery."

"Wouldn't we all," Christine dryly responded.

Greta looked up at the two friends with an astute expression. But, as usual, she said nothing.


	9. According to Plan

Gustave was not much impressed with Meg's accommodations, which was to be expected. She tried showing him her mother's ring and brooch, explaining that his own mother had known the late Madam Giry, as well, but he only glanced at the impersonal jewelry. When Meg began regaling him with tales of his mother from when she was younger, she was finally able to hold some of his interest.

They hadn't been in the room long, before there was a rapping on the door.

"Come in!" Meg called out.

Gangle burst through, looking more annoyed than usual, with an equally-upset Fleck behind him. Squelch was nowhere to be seen.

"We're taking Gustave back to Squelch, now, Addie," he ordered.

The lanky emcee was an original player of _Phantasma_, and he had always treated Meg with disdain. Every time he looked at her, Meg had the distinct feeling that he knew more about her than he let on. Maybe he did. She had no idea what Erik had shared over the years…or how observant Gangle was.

Fleck was less hostile. She had enough on her plate, with people treating her poorly due to her short stature. Mostly, she only sought to be taken seriously. She did her best, on her end, to always maintain an air of professionalism and indifference. Unless she was around Squelch. Fleck had a soft spot for the childlike man.

Meg narrowed her eyes at the man in front of her.

"Shall we ask Gustave what _he_ wants to do?"

Fleck addressed the boy, wishing to have the standoff ended.

"Hello, Gustave! Squelch is waiting for you! Are you ready to play a game of checkers?"

The boy quickly jumped up from his seated position, no longer interested in hearing stories of his mother's past. He nodded, and Fleck took his hand and led him out the door. Neither said goodbye or looked over their shoulders as they left.

"You have your instructions, Addie?"

Meg looked back toward Gangle, rolling her eyes at his attempt to manage her.

"Yes," she answered, this time with superiority. She was confident that, as observant as he was, Gangle did not know as much about Erik's plans as she did.

"Did Mr. Y not tell you that Gustave must stay with Squelch and I as much as possible?"

"Um," she hesitated. _No, I don't recall that being said…_ "I was told to bring Gustave to him during the third show."

"And," he supplemented, "you are to let _us_ keep him occupied during the first two." Gangle gave her a probing look. "You really have no idea what we've been asked to do, do you?"

She felt her face flinch. "Would I approve, if I knew?"

"Hmm…" Gangle allowed for a dramatic pause. "I doubt it," he smirked condescendingly. "Not that I care about your approval…" He exited swiftly, his last statement barely reaching Meg's ears.

The room was now quiet.

Meg walked back to the dressing room, but Christine was no longer there. She heard her voice lightly ringing through the corridor and went to watch her friend from the side.

"_Try to deny it  
__And try to protest.  
__But love won't let you go,  
__Once you've been possessed…"_

Christine was resplendent, onstage. The hush that fell upon the crowd during her aria was incredible. There were few performers that had that talent: to demand complete attention. Offstage, most of the performers and crew members were watching her, too, with adoring looks.

A movement from the corner of her eye split Meg's attention, as she focused on Gustave and Squelch playing a very serious game of checkers in dim candlelight. Still in the back corner of the wing. With no Gangle or Fleck to be seen.

When the song concluded, Christine gave a dignified bow to her grateful audience. She even acknowledged Mr. Bailey and his band of musicians. As she exited, her full white gown trailing behind her, she smiled humbly to those who had been watching in the wings. She found Meg and headed straight for her friend.

"Beautiful, Christine," Meg complimented.

The songstress embraced her friend, then pulled away and scanned for her son. As soon as she saw Gustave, she exhaled any previous worry that had gathered within her.

There was no time to talk, as the curtain call came right after the final act: Christine's solo. Meg took her place amidst the other dancing girls, in the center of their line. Christine was far upstage, awaiting the moment the chorus would part to reveal her. They eventually did so, and Christine gracefully walked down the aisle they created, bowing once more to the enthusiastic, if smaller, crowd.

She looked to offstage left, expecting to see the emcee trio bring the unwanted bouquets of red roses.

But it was only Gustave who entered, teetering a bit, under the weight of the large bouquet, and heading straight to his mother. Christine had an artificial smile plastered on her face, and she took the flowers obediently. Gustave beamed, then looked offstage to where Gangle, Fleck, and Squelch were waiting. Gangle looked amused by the famous woman's reaction, sporting a half smirk, while Fleck encouraged the boy with applause directed only to him. Squelch took Fleck's cue and clapped for his young friend, too.

Christine took her son's hand, holding the bouquet on the other side of her body, and gave a slight curtsey to finalize the curtain call. The first show was officially concluded, and the main curtain was lowered in front of the players. Everyone dispersed, offstage and in the audience hall, eager to continue the day.

Meg looked for Christine and Gustave in the mild chaos, as the stage manager called out half an hour to places for the second show time. The ladies found each other, as Christine frowned in thought.

"Thirty minutes until the next call? That certainly doesn't give us enough time to do anything, does it?"

Meg nodded, but explained further. "These first two shows of the day are in rapid succession, but we will break longer after the next. Enough time to have a decent lunch."

"And what does everyone do for these thirty minutes?"

"Most relax in the dressing rooms, visiting and making sure their makeup, hair, and costumes are ready before places," Meg shrugged. "Some go to the kitchen to snack and chat. Depending on the weather, some like to smoke or take the air outside."

Christine looked down to her son. "Was Miss Addie's room awfully interesting?"

Gustave shook his head apologetically, glancing shyly at his mother's old friend.

"Well, thank you for that!" Meg answered the boy's wordless response with obvious mirth and affection. She hesitated, knowing that Christine was polite enough to require an invitation to see the room Meg occupied. "I…think we have enough time to take a quick tour of my room, as uninteresting as you might find it," she joked.

She led them there, with Gustave telling his mother of the fun he had with Squelch in a continuous stream of words and sounds. Once inside, Christine circled the room slowly, her curiosity on display. Her eyes landed on the picture on the vanity.

"I remember when your mother called you over to take this," she remarked quietly. "We finished all the promotional pictures, and she called you back over to take one more."

"Do you remember, at first, how I balked?" Meg sadly reminisced. "We were so tired, holding those poses for hours!"

"True," Christine smiled. "But you were a dutiful daughter, and you ran right over. I think that last picture took almost half an hour, with Madam Giry posing you like a doll before taking her place and allowing the photographer to take it."

Meg just nodded.

"How did you come across that? You didn't have it with you when he abducted you, did you?"

"Um, no. I – um, it was in the package. From my mother."

"Ah, of course," Christine whispered. Her voice rose to ask a politely restrained question. "Was the picture the only thing she sent you?"

"There was more. My mother's ring – remember the black cameo she always wore? And a brooch of hers that she knew I admired. And a letter."

Christine did not probe further, knowing that Meg might be protective over her mother's final words. Although the ballet matron had been a mother figure to her, too, Christine would never presume to equate their relationship with her friend's blood bond. Besides, Christine had many years of communication with Madam Giry. Precious years that Meg was robbed of. That her poor friend would never have on this earth.

Gustave was bored with his second trip to Miss Addie's room. He walked to the vanity and opened the different drawers with the kind of naïve boldness only possessed by young children. Christine stopped his exploration quickly, and he walked over to sit sourly on the bed. His mother, meanwhile, made light conversation with the pretty blonde lady, until both decided to return to the stage area.

The second show was better in every way, from the first. After the opening number, Gustave was once again approached by Squelch. Once again, Christine gave permission for her son to go with the kind performer. A new board game was ready and waiting for the two at the back corner of the backstage wing. Meg finished the number with the chorus girls, then rushed to the dressing room to change into her white tutu. At the end of the short song with Christine, the soprano hurried to do her own costume change, from white to lilac.

Meg waited offstage, watching act following act, still in her pure white tutu. Christine appeared beside her, awaiting her solo, wearing the less voluminous dress. A quick glance to Gustave and Squelch, at the outskirts of the two ladies' visions. Silhouettes of a large, round man and a small, well-dressed boy. Both energetically reacting to the different stages of their game.

"My offer still stands, Meg," she whispered, worried that, despite speaking French, someone might be able to pick out the name. "Come with us, come with me. I'll take you to London, visit your mother's gravesite. If you'd like, I can have her moved back to France. We can do another service, have her placed to rest wherever you want. Please?"

Meg smiled, but didn't look over. Both women stared out onto the stage.

"Thank you, but my answer is still no. This is my life, now."

"And how much longer will this last?" The diva in lilac innocently asked.

That made Meg look over at her friend. "What do you mean?"

"How long can you perform this insane schedule? How much longer will your body be able to handle the demands of your craft? And, once you're forced to retire from performing, will you still be able to choreograph? Even if you do, why couldn't you do so somewhere in France? In Europe? You are the daughter of an esteemed figure, a shining talent, in your own right, and you now have the experience needed to take up your mother's mantle anywhere you wish. The Paris Opéra House was rebuilt to its former glory. Raoul and I aren't currently patrons, but we would happily use our influence to place you in a position, there."

"Christine," Meg whispered emphatically to halt the barrage. "I thank you, but no. I cannot leave."

"Your reasons make no sense," Christine countered. "You claim these people are your family, but I've hardly seen you speak with any of them. And none of them truly know you. Not all of you. Your choreography is limited, by what I assume is a dance troupe made up of women of minimal training. Nothing, really, compared to what you and I were doing in the Paris Opéra. Your crowds are small and uncultured. Your mother-"

"I am NOT my mother," Meg finally hissed back, unable to withstand the verbal assault on _Phantasma_. "I was a different person, eight years ago. I'm no longer the classical _prima ballerina_ of the Paris Opéra. I can't go back…because I don't want to."

Silence lay between them. There was plenty of ambient noise surrounding them: the band's music, footfalls of stage hands, audience responses… But nothing could bridge the awkward space between the two women.

It was Christine's turn to enter for her song. She did so with a vacant look in her eye, but when she turned to face the crowd, her expression was serene and demure. Ever the professional.

"_Love never dies!  
__Love never falters!  
__Once it has spoken,  
__Love is yours._

_Love never fades!  
__Love never alters!  
__Hearts may get broken,  
__Love endures.  
__Hearts may get broken,  
__Love endures…"_

Meg looked up to the top of the theater. She wondered if Erik was there, or if his plans with Gustave meant he was attending to business elsewhere. _After the opening number, next show…_she recalled. She wasn't honestly sure how to bring the boy to Erik. But she would need assurances of Gustave's safety. She would not deliver her friend's child into any hint of danger. To tell the truth, Meg had grown fond of the exuberant young lad, herself.

Another show concluded, another curtain call.

Gustave running onto the stage, this time with more confidence, as he strode to his mother with the same bouquet from the first show. The same thin black ribbons swaying with his movements. Christine took the flowers and did not pay them the slightest glance. Her eyes were on her son, holding his hand and letting him enjoy the shared limelight. When the bows were over, after the main curtain fell, she again exited and discarded the unwanted roses.

Luckily, Gustave took no offense. The bouquet was a prop. Similar to the many items kept by the various performers. Juggling balls, pins, swords, a wagon, cymbals, hoops…all for show.

Afterward, Christine made her way back to the women's dressing room, discarding the lilac gown on a nearby dress form, and putting on a robe that she used between performances. Meg watched Gustave outside, as his mother changed, then turned him back over with a promise to meet mother and son in the larger guest quarters. She then put her opening costume back on, as uncomfortable as it was.

Meg, Christine, and Gustave took lunch in Christine's parlor. The tray was waiting outside the door, placed there sometime during the latter half of the second performance. It was a late meal, and all three were famished from their early morning and shows. Christine smartly decided to keep the conversation light, unhappy that the second offer she made to Meg was so quickly stomped down. There wasn't much time to rest, as the third showtime quickly approached the performers scattered throughout the theater.

The call for places came; the stage manager's voice rang, throughout the backstage. Christine was still in her robe, with a panicked look on her face.

"Oh, I'm behind schedule," she lamented. "Me- Um, Addie, would you mind talking Gustave for me, so that I can get dressed? I know I have time before our duet, but I can't go traipsing about backstage in my robe until Gustave is done!"

The innocent boy looked up at his mother, wondering what her lateness had to do with him.

"Of course," Meg nodded. She held a hand out to Gustave, who readily took it. "Let's go, handsome! We need to get back to the carousel before your favorite animal is taken!"

Christine parted company, heading straight for the effulgent gown that Greta and her assistants would help her don. Meg and Gustave went straight to the fantastical-looking purple dragon upstage. He was the only boy present, but as he climbed onto the faux carousel piece, more children were ushered in, pleased as punch to be picked for the exclusive honor of being on the small stage.

Meg went to the side, patiently watching for the hullabaloo to be over and for Gustave to be returned.

"We will take it from here," a voice spoke up behind her.

She stared straight ahead, not caring to acknowledge Gangle with a glance. "You should be onstage. Places was called."

"I know!" he snapped.

Meg was watching the activity with a lazy eye, but now she saw that Fleck and Squelch were in position, with no Gangle.

"Mr. Y wanted me to clarify your part," he stated. "When you are through with your duet, I will bring Gustave to you as you exit stage right. From there, you can use the spiral staircase to meet Mr. Y."

He didn't wait for any kind of confirmation on Meg's part, but sprinted to his opening pose in the center of the stage, just as the main curtain rose. Still shrouded in darkness, the single large spotlight shone brightly down onto the trio of emcees.

_That was too close to being a disaster,_ Meg thought. _I doubt Erik would approve of Gangle compromising the quality of his show for the sake of delivering me a message that could have been relayed in a more efficient way._

But that was Gangle. He never crossed the line, when it came to orders, but he tauntingly tiptoed up to whatever boundary he was given.

Christine barely arrived before the end of the opening song. She lifted her skirts and quickly found her way to Meg, who was ready to take her place behind the scrim.

When her jovial number concluded, Meg was surprised to find that Christine had already granted permission for Squelch to take Gustave to their favorite corner. The diva stood alone, watching her son playing jacks on the ground with the lumbering man. She stayed behind, awaiting her entrance onstage for their duet, while Meg changed from one costume into another.

Their duet was smoother, more like clockwork, on this third performance. The audience responded with cheers and hollers to the two lovely ladies. Meg exited and waited on the opposite side of the stage from Christine.

Most likely, the young mother was already making her way to the dressing room, confident that her old friend would watch her precious child as Meg had so faithfully done during every performance.

Gangle brought the boy to Meg within moments. Poor Gustave looked confused, but not uncomfortable. When he saw Miss Addie, he smiled with the added trust he had in her. Meg's heart dropped a little, at that, but she reminded herself that Erik would never harm Gustave.

Gangle didn't say a word, for once. He merely looked up to the rafters above, before giving Meg a hard glare. She ignored him and bent down to the boy.

"Hello, Gustave! Shall we do a little exploring?"

Gustave looked behind him, toward the opposite side of the stage, where Meg assumed Squelch was still stationed. The young boy nodded politely, and Meg took his hand to lead him to the metal grate spiral staircase.

They ascended slowly, carefully, with Meg leading the way. Gustave began to tense, once they were halfway up.

"Keep your eyes on me and on the staircase, Gustave," Meg whispered down to him. She hadn't taken this staircase often…maybe a handful of times since Erik had purchased the theater. She felt fortunate that the height did not intimidate her.

At the very top, it was almost pitch black. There was a maze of catwalks that led around the fly tower, allowing for stage hands to tend to the spotlights, add flying backdrops to the rigging, as well as other menial but important duties. The planks that would lead to the Phantom were mostly unused, as they did not lead to the front or sides of the stage below. He liked to watch behind the performers, mostly. Not seeing them as the audience did, with their expressions and choreography on display, but as a fellow performer, being amongst the action.

Meg and Gustave passed Fleck, who gave a nod of acknowledgement but did not speak.

Erik was waiting on the catwalk, dressed as formally as ever, complete with his black gloves and cape. The white mask was a welcome sight, for once, as it was bright enough to cue anyone in that darkness to see where to meet his eyes. Meg set her hands lightly on Gustave's shoulders, as he stood in front of her. Only a few feet from the mysterious Mr. Y.

"Hello, again, young man," Mr. Y cordial greeted Gustave. "Are you still enjoying the show?"

"Yes!" Gustave answered, a little too loudly. Meg quickly shushed him, gently.

"What do you like about it?" the Phantom asked pointedly.

"Um," the boy whispered. "I like riding on the purple dragon, and I named him Louis. And I like playing games with Squelch-"

"I meant," Erik interrupted, "what do you like about all of the acts onstage?"

"Oh. Um, I like…um, the sword man. And I like Bruno, and his tattoos are amazing! He's so strong! I want to be that strong, when I grow up, too!"

Erik looked up to Meg, then. "You may go back down. Fleck will bring the boy back down to his mother."

"I-" Meg started, unsure of what to say to his dismissal. "I can stay up here and bring him back down, myself."

He narrowed her eyes at her rebuttal. "No, you cannot. Christine will be expecting you. Go be with your little _friend_."

Meg stayed rooted to her position. Erik took a step toward her, to meet her gaze directly.

"I said _go_," he hissed menacingly.

Gustave tensed under her, but he didn't move.

"Erik," she mouthed the name, confident that he would see it on her lips. "Please," she whispered. "Promise me, _promise me_ that you will not do anything to make me hate you."

He looked amused with her words. "I'm surprised you don't, already," he whispered back, returning to his original position.

"No, I don't," she shook her head in emphasis. "You've hurt me, more in these past days than ever, but I don't hate you. Please don't make me hate you."

The Phantom studied her for a minute, noting the sincerity and desperation in her eyes. He nodded slowly, seriously. Meg breathed a sigh of relief, but she did not smile or nod in kind.

She bent down to Gustave, who seemed calmer, now that the adults were no longer sparring.

"I'll see you soon, okay?"

The boy smiled and nodded trustingly.

Meg had done her part. She walked back through the paths of catwalks, past an appraising Fleck, down the spiral staircase, and through the crossover to the stage left wing.

Squelch was playing with a well-dressed little boy. It was a game of dominoes, this time. The boy looked enough like Gustave, from afar. Where Gangle and Fleck had found a child matching Gustave's stature and coloring was discombobulating, as was the idea of them waiting to see what the real Gustave would be wearing to make sure they purchased similar items, but now their roles were clear. Squelch played happily, not the least bit disturbed that his playdate had been switched.

Meg walked to the same spot she usually occupied offstage. She looked up to the high ceiling, but she couldn't see anything…or anyone.

Christine appeared beside her, a vision in lilac once more. She turned to Meg, still in her white tutu, and addressed the former _prima ballerina_.

"Three more shows today," she shared. It was information both of them already knew. It was more for Christine's encouragement than anything else. "Three today, three tomorrow, and then I will _never_ see the Phantom of the Opera, again."


	10. Confronted and Convicted

At the end of the third show, Gustave ran out with the same bouquet for his mother. Meg breathed a relieved sigh at the sight of him. Christine was, of course, unaware of where he had actually been.

In between the third and fourth shows was another short thirty-minute respite. Meg changed back into her previous costume and then went straight to her room, desperately wanting to be alone. Her head was swimming with muddled thoughts. Her emotions were a conflicted mess. She felt guilty for not refusing to follow Erik's orders. She felt trepidation for Christine's departure and how much the short visit would affect the rest of Meg's life.

She looked around the room, searching for her mother's letter. She needed to read the words again. The slightest sliver of the parchment peeked out from underneath her vanity. Meg bent down to retrieve the precious item.

"_I had a horrible __premonition that Erik would retaliate, if his plans did not play out according to his wishes… as he has been known to do all his life… He is not a forgiving soul… He will always be infatuated with Christine."_

_Why, though?_ She thought as she reread her mother's advice. _Why should he always be obsessed with Christine? Because he taught her to sing? Why can't his feelings transfer to another, especially if that person returns equally strong adoration?_

Meg backed up and sat at the edge of her bed, still holding the letter.

_Why, after eight years, is he unable to love me?_

Aside from conditioning her voice, Christine only willingly aligned herself with the Phantom's wishes on one occasion: debuting in _Hannibal_. She ran away, when pushed into the part of the Countess in _Il Muto_, and she only agreed to perform in _Don Juan Triumphant_ as a ruse.

Meg had done everything Erik asked of her. And, because of his undeniable musical genius, she had flourished into a person she never dreamed she could be. A choreographer. A solo act, capable of singing and dancing to enrapture an audience. A costume designer. She was proud of the partnership they had built. Her and Erik.

She was here. Willingly. Performing for him. Only for him.

_Why can't he understand that? What must I do? What _can_ I do?_

A loud knock stirred her from her musings.

"ADDIE! ARE YOU IN THERE?! YOU'RE GOING TO MISS OUR SONG!"

It was Suzanne, and the panic in her voice made Meg jump up and throw the letter onto the vanity. She ran out the door and both girls ran for their places.

The fourth performance of the chorus girls' number did not go as smoothly as the previous three. Meg was out of breath from sprinting to start on time, and her singing voice suffered, as a result. The six other girls onstage were thrown off, by the usually dependable lead dancer's blunder. Dance steps were forgotten, girls were bumping into one another, and the occasional word was forgotten. All seven performers were relieved when the embarrassing moment was over, and they were grateful for the scant applause and no cries of outrage or mocking.

Having no time to collect herself, Meg ran past Christine, who looked both surprised and sympathetic, to the dressing room to change. Greta ordered the young woman to take deep breaths; the gruff seamstress successfully calmed the frazzled dancer and sent her on her way.

Christine looked like she wanted to speak a word of encouragement to Meg, as the blonde walked swiftly to her entrance for the duet, but she left her alone. Meg passed Squelch, once again with the stand-in for Gustave. Seeing the strange boy made Meg's pulse race, but she couldn't do anything until her duet with Christine was finished.

She stood at the upstage corner, waiting for the act onstage to be over and for her music to begin.

"Mr. Y requests your presence, directly after this number," Gangle whispered behind her.

The hairs on her neck stood up on end. She didn't acknowledge the lead emcee in any way, needing to concentrate on her upcoming performance.

Thankfully, the duet was perfect. The audience, recognizing the blonde dancer and enthralled by the brunette singer, loudly praised the brief act.

Meg felt redeemed, but she knew Erik would be displeased by her previous number.

She held Christine's hand once more, trying not to meet her friend's probing eyes, then released it to exit the stage. She slowly ascended the metal stairs, dreading what she might find waiting for her.

Fleck was at the top, taking a sudden interest in her fingernails, to avoid smirking directly at the reason for Mr. Y's ire. Meg frowned and made her way through the darkness, knowing that Erik would not appreciate being kept waiting.

_He is not a forgiving soul…_

The Phantom was on the same catwalk as earlier, as was Gustave. The boy smiled as Meg approached, but he didn't greet her. Erik watched the act below them, leaning over to point out different aspects of how the performance came together with cooperation from both those onstage and off. Gustave listened politely, but showed no real interest in the secretive world behind the scenes.

"…if not, then the audience's attention wouldn't be drawn upstage at the correct moment." Erik spoke softly, but Meg could still hear every word.

He saw her approaching, and when she was close enough and his sentence concluded to the boy, he stood up fully. Before she could speak, Erik motioned behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to find Fleck pushing past her.

"I think that's enough, for this show," the words seemed to be directed to Gustave, but he looked at Meg and waited on Fleck. "I'll see you soon, young man."

Christine's son nodded noncommittedly, and he obediently followed Fleck across the elevated paths and down the staircase. Erik stared at Meg the whole time, sending chills down her spine, without saying a word. Once the boy and assistant emcee were completely out of sight, he finally spoke.

"What do you have to say for yourself? You just ruined an entire number, at the beginning of one of our busiest showtimes."

Meg's brows lifted high on her forehead, somewhat surprised to have so much blame heaped upon her.

"I lost track of time, Erik," she stated plainly. "I needed time to myself. You _know_ how pressured I've felt, ever since Christine arrived-"

"This has NOTHING to do with her," he hissed.

"I beg to differ," Meg shot back. "_Everything_ seems to revolve around Christine. And I haven't been able to go out to swim in almost a week. My head-"

"And that's why you are suddenly sabotaging _my_ show with your carelessness? When I have so little time with Christine, you are pulling my focus with sloppy showmanship?"

The accusations were too brutal for Meg to bear. She shook her head at his single-mindedness. For the first time in eight years… _Have I wasted my time here? I knew I wasn't Erik's first choice. I hoped he would be satisfied with me. But was this all for nothing? Am I expendable?_

"I can't…do this, Erik," she swallowed the lump in her throat. Her mouth felt drier than cotton. "How dare you come down so hard on me! Why am _I _held to a higher standard than anyone else in _Phantasma? _And after you've treated me so poorly…I make _one_ mistake, and I'm rebuked this savagely?"

"Don't try my patience, Addie," he spoke with a menacing growl.

"I told you _never_ to call me that, when it was just the two of us." She turned to leave, unceremoniously.

Although she didn't turn around, she could feel his eyes burning into her retreating form. She quickly made her way to the stairs then descended with soft footfalls. Gangle was leaning against the rail at the bottom and he gave her a cursory glance before looking away. She walked behind the stage, out of sight of the audience. Fleck was walking back toward her with a young boy about Gustave's age. But, when Meg came closer to crossing their path, she saw that, aside from his build and basic coloring, he looked nothing like Christine's child.

Squelch and Gustave were in their favorite corner, playing a game involving multiple lengths of sticks that looked as if they were thrown into a jumbled pile on the floor. Neither noticed her, as they were both entrenched in their gameplay, but Meg could tell that Gustave was more at ease and genuinely happy with Squelch than he had been in the rafters with Mr. Y.

Christine was waiting, stately and elegant as always. Her glittering jewels caught some of the backstage light, but not enough to reflect onto the stage. She smiled as Meg approached her, darting a glance behind her friend to her son and his companion.

"I have to admit," she whispered to Meg, "this has been a more pleasant experience for Gustave than I could have ever foreseen. Everyone has been incredibly kind to him. I know he'll be talking about this short visit for months to come."

Meg felt a muscle in her jaw spasm, and she couldn't help but attribute it to the discomfort she felt over having escorted her friend's adorable son to the very man Christine feared.

"Yes, he's a very…compassionate child."

"Compassion?" Christine questioned, looking directly to her friend. "That reminds me. What made you suddenly have more compassion for the treacherous _Mr. Y_? Don't tell me it was him revealing his background to you. Nothing he went through can excuse the terror he inflicted upon others."

Meg looked around with a sweeping glance, worried that someone might overhear the damning accusations. There were no performers near them, thankfully, and the crewmen were too focused on their duties to worry about the gossip between ladies. Saturday was already taking its toll on all of _Phantasma_.

The blonde woman relented, then.

"I…I suppose it was my vanity, at first. He appealed to my love of performing. He promised to help me achieve notoriety as a solo act, let me design costumes, and choreograph numbers for the show."

"Why didn't you continue dancing _en pointe_, then?"

Meg couldn't help but be suspicious of Christine's new nonchalant delivery. Light conversation. That's how her talented friend wanted this to feel. But "Love Never Dies" was almost nigh. Christine couldn't keep up this charade for long.

"Er – um, he didn't feel that it was necessary, due to the more casual nature of this show. And performing this many shows a week…it would be too much of a strain on one's feet."

Christine looked at her probingly, waiting. Meg felt the awkward silence, wondering if she had missed something.

"Um, and he didn't like seeing how my feet were so bruised and abused by dancing _en pointe._"

As soon as she'd finished the sentence, Meg wished she had stayed silent.

Christine narrowed her eyes shrewdly at her companion. But, before she could speak, applause broke the tension and reminded her that she was due to enter.

The curtain call came swiftly after Christine's performance, and Meg avoided the diva's stare. Gustave ran out with the roses, and his mother's attention was effectively shifted to her son and his antics.

Leaving the stage, Gustave pulled on his mother's arm, while Christine deposited the roses onto the same set piece she had previously discarded it. Meg heard the two of them exchange a quick conversation, before ducking out to her room.

"Mama, can I go with Squelch and Gangle and Fleck and the other performers to the kitchen? Can I have dinner with them? Please?"

"Oh, I-"

"_Please_?"

Meg didn't hear more than that, trying to remain hidden from Christine's view. The cast had an hour to eat before places for the fifth show of the day. Some would go to the kitchen, where Erik always had a simple catered meal ready for them. Some chose to leave the premises, to find food more palatable to their particular tastes.

Truthfully, Meg was hungry, but her desire for solitude outweighed her need to fill her stomach. She went straight to her room and closed the door behind her, breathing deeply. She took deep breaths and walked back to her bed to lie down. Before doing so, she put a robe over her pristine white costume. Part of her wanted to leave the room, change into the majority of the pieces for her opening number, then return to rest. But even that extra amount of movement seemed like too much effort to exert at that moment.

She had only been on her bed for minutes, when there was a knock. She groaned bitterly.

"Who is it?"

"It's only me," Christine called from behind the door.

Meg clenched her fists and reluctantly hoisted herself up to let her friend in. Christine entered, also in her robe, pushing the food tray that had most likely been delivered to her own room.

"I let Gustave go to the kitchen with his friends, and I thought we might take our supper here," she said, the same air of nonchalance and calmness.

Meg crossed to the vanity and hastily placed the letter out of view, in one of the drawers. She offered the seat to Christine without a word, then took her own seat back on the edge of her bed. Christine wheeled the wooden cart toward the space between the bed and the vanity. Once she turned the vanity's seat to face the cart and the bed, Christine perched daintily upon the chair.

The tray was a spread of various charcuterie items, a light supper. And most definitely more lavish than what the rest of the ensemble would be eating for their meal. The ladies picked at the meats and crackers, taking their time. It almost filled the silence between them, concentrating on their eating.

Christine looked around the room, occasionally letting her eyes alight on Meg, who, in turn, would smile politely and look away. The songstress' sight fell upon the trash can next to the vanity.

"Oh, Meg! I think your book fell into the waste bin…" She bent down to pick it up.

"Oh! No! That's just…I threw it away-"

"Why would you throw out a perfectly good book?" Christine was holding the tossed item in her hand and examining the title. "_Le Comte de Monte-Cristo?_ I don't know if I've heard of this. Is it not good?"

Meg bit her lip, frustrated to her very core. "I – Yes, it's good."

"Neither of us were much for reading in our spare time in Paris," Christine reminded her former confidant.

"We didn't have much spare time, back then," Meg countered quietly.

"True," the brunette beauty admitted. "What made you take the activity up now? Or, should I say, whom?"

Meg felt it, again. The gentle prodding.

"When we were on the ship, there wasn't much to do…"

"What happened, on that voyage? Where were you, and why were you unable to find help?"

Christine's calm demeanor was diminishing, as she couldn't help but show genuine concern for what her friend had been through.

"I-I-I don't want to talk about it," Meg shook her head avidly.

"Was it that terrible?" Christine whispered back, her eyes filled with horror.

"No, it was…he had some novels with him, that's all I meant to say, and he let me read them. That one was my favorite, so I bought a copy when _Phantasma _returned profits and I was making a salary."

"Your favorite." Christine's words were a statement. A challenge. "Then why did you throw it out?"

"May we please discuss something else?"

"Can you at least tell me what it's about?"

"You may keep that copy, if you'd like, and find out for yourself."

"That's not what I asked, Meg." Christine placed the novel onto the vanity and sat back in the seat, apparently finished with her portion of the meal. "Tell me what it is about, please, so that I might know why it's worth reading."

Meg sighed and chewed a cracker thoughtfully. There were cups next to a teapot, and she took the initiative to pour herself some of the hot liquid. _It's just a synopsis, Meg, give her what she wants. Maybe she'll drop this conversation, afterward. _

"It's about a man named Edmond Dántes. He's a merchant sailor from Marseille, and he's in love with Mercédès. Unfortunately for him, Mercédès is also the object of affection for Fernand Mondego, who then conspires with other enemies of Edmond's to have him charged with treason. Edmond is sentenced to life imprisonment, where he eventually meets another prisoner, whom he calls Abbé Faria. The two men agree to help each other, Edmond helping the elderly man dig toward freedom, and the well-educated Faria teaching Edmond everything he knows about the world. Faria dies, but not before telling Edmond about a treasure located on an island called Monte Cristo."

"Ah," Christine nodded, only partially interested in the story Meg was quickly weaving. "I was wondering what the title meant. Let me guess: Edmond escapes, somehow, finds the treasure, and purchases the title?"

"Well, yes," Meg confirmed, dumbfounded by Christine's astute prediction.

"And? Then what?"

"Um," Meg closed her eyes, trying to speedily recall where she had left off, and what came after Christine's addition. "Um, he then goes about getting his revenge on those who conspired against him." _Edmond earns the trust of Albert, son of Fernand and Mercédès, so that he can manipulate him into agreeing to his wishes…oh no…_

"How does it end? Does he successfully kill all of his enemies?"

"No, um, not exactly. He… has moments when he goes too far. Ultimately, he is changed. By love."

"Changed by love." Another bland statement from Christine. Unconvinced. "He wins Mercédès back from her husband."

"No, actually," Meg shook her head.

"Mmmm," Christine sardonically murmured. "Well, I'm not convinced that I should enjoy that particular plot as much as you. But thank you for enlightening me."

Meg glanced at the mantle clock in the room.

"We need to be going. I do, anyway. I need to change back into my first costume."

Christine did not move from her seated position. "There's enough time for you to answer one more question." She used the teapot to pour herself a cup, and she took a sip immediately.

Meg was impatient to leave, but she figured one more question about the discarded novel would be quickly answered.

"Yes?"

Christine dabbed the napkin in her lap to the corners of her pursed lips. She laid it back in her lap and placed the cup on its saucer, before leveling her gaze to the obviously anxious blonde woman.

"Answer me truthfully: Are you in love with him? Are you in love… with the Phantom?"

Meg stood fretfully, unable to compose herself. Unable to hide the emotions permeating from deep within her soul. She glanced at the clock, then the door. Then she brought her eyes down to Christine's seated form. The brunette was unbothered in appearance, almost icy, in comparison to her friend's agitated state.

"I-I-" Meg nervously stuttered, again. "I can't say! I must go!"

The former ballerina fled the room, closing the door behind her and trotting toward the sanctuary of the less private areas of the backstage area. Her heart was beating so hard, as she made her way into the dressing room, she imagined it might break through her chest.

Still in Meg's room, Christine continued to sip on the lukewarm tea with worry. She turned in the chair to face the vanity. Her concern for Meg could be seen in the wrinkles above her furrowed brows. She set the cup down, next to the book.

_Edmond, a man in love with a woman whom he is unable to be with, _she mused. _She marries another. He takes his revenge. And then, what? He is changed by love? How so?_

Christine had plenty of time until her first number onstage, the duet with Meg. Gustave was with friends, and she no longer feared him being out of her sight. He always returned to her.

She opened the small jewelry box on the vanity, and she immediately spotted the familiar cameo ring once worn by Madam Giry. There were a few brooches along the bottom, but she had no idea which one was _the_ one.

She opened the main drawer and the aforementioned letter was perched atop buttons, pictures, coins, and less valuable objects.

"_The Phantom…Erik. That is his true name…  
_…_I am telling you all of this to take the full blame…  
_…_I am happy for Christine…But I paid too high a price…  
_…_his fiery obsession with her will reunite the two of you…  
__I do not know what tactics Erik will use, to keep you under his control…  
__He will always be infatuated with Christine…  
_…_Do not follow in my footsteps… Stay out of his way…if he seeks to steal her back…  
_…_please protect yourself…"_

Christine looked up at the picture of Meg and her mother, still leaning against the vanity's mirror. She wanted to hate the woman. But, as a mother herself, Christine could not condemn Madam Giry for acting in her daughter's best interests. But the fierce matron in the photograph no longer held the same nostalgic place in Christine's heart.

She placed the letter back where she had found it, righted everything she had moved out of place, and pushed the cart out the door, so that whomever had dropped it off could pick it up.

Then the beloved singer walked to the dressing room, where she was sure she wouldn't find her dear old friend.


	11. Discussing the Past

"I'm going with Squelch, Mother!"

Gustave ran up to and then immediately ran from Christine to excuse his absence from his mother's side. She barely batted an eye, as the two unlikely friends made their way to the back corner of the wing, where they were mostly hidden from view.

As expected, Christine did not find Meg in the dressing room, when she arrived to be fitted into her large white gown. It _was_ unexpected that her blonde friend avoided her for the entire first half of the fifth Saturday show.

At the end of their duet, Christine and Meg shared their most artificial embrace, holding hands briefly to bow and exiting as quickly as they both could. Christine noted the tension between them. And she knew that the tension arriving after her confronting Meg about her affection for the Phantom, for Erik, was the closest thing Christine would get to an actual answer to her question.

On the opposite side of the stage, Meg was far more concerned with what Erik could be planning. She couldn't believe he would harm the boy in any way, no matter who his father was. She was surprised that Erik hadn't abducted Gustave to use him as the ultimate leverage against his mother.

_Then again,_ she figured, _Christine is already singing for him. It's unlikely that he would take Gustave, before she finishes performing. Otherwise, she would be too panicked to execute her songs properly…_

Meg stewed on the subject, determined to understand what was going on in Erik's mind.

_Okay, I'm him. I'm obsessed with Christine. I want her to stay, but no words will sway her. I have to take action. Erik already used the Vicomte as a bargaining chip, but it didn't work. _

Earlier, when she exited her bubbly number with the chorus girls, Meg had seen Fleck escorting Gustave up the winding staircase to where the Phantom was inevitably waiting.

_Albert Mondego, son of Fernand and Mercédès. Befriended by Dantes, in disguise. He gains the boy's trust… How can Erik use Gustave's trust against his parents?_

Idly, Meg looked toward the darkened rafters. As usual, she could see no movement above, but she wondered if Gustave and Erik were still hidden above _Phantasma_.

Her mother's words suddenly flashed in her mind: "_…I can imagine that he saw you and acted rashly, as he has been known to do all his life."_ She had read her mother's letter so many times, she was sure she remembered the words exactly as they appeared.

_Erik gave Christine an ultimatum: she could go free and forfeit her lover's life, or she could save Raoul's life and go willingly with the Phantom. _Her thoughts raced, trying to understand Erik's fallible reasoning. _If he has Gustave, Christine will do anything to save her son. Erik would never hurt him, but Christine doesn't know that. She believes he's the same remorseless killer he was back in Paris._

By the time Christine graced the stage for her spellbinding aria, Meg felt fairly confident that she knew what was coming. Her stomach turned, listening to her formerly best friend sing so beautifully onstage.

Gustave was present, once more, for the fifth curtain call of the day. He looked less excited than the previous performances. To the clueless audience, he must have seemed a tad shy. To the entire company of _Phantasma_, as well as his mother, the poor boy was obviously exhausted from the exceptionally long day. Only one more performance to go.

With another half-hour break between shows, Christine walked straight to the dressing room, holding her son's miniature hand. Meg followed, leaving distance between herself and the duo. The ladies' dressing room was buzzing with female performers. Most were already in their costumes, but a couple ran behind the silk screens to change, when they saw the little boy enter. Christine saw Meg's reflection standing behind her own, in the mirror. She turned around in surprise. Gustave only gave a tired smile.

"Meg - er, Addie! I didn't expect to see you!"

The blonde blushed at unintentionally scaring her poor friend. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you. I noticed Gustave is a bit tired. Are you, young man?" she addressed the young boy. "Are you tired? Saturdays are long for all of us, aren't they girls?" She posed the question to the entire room and received a fair amount of solidarity.

The boy nodded guiltily, embarrassed to be the center of attention in the room. Meg's eyes met Christine's and she continued.

"Let him sleep on the chaise in the corner," Meg pointed to the comfortable lounging chair. "Take your time getting ready, and we'll both return right after our duet. While you change, I'll take him to your room and put him to bed."

The young mother still looked surprised. And wary. Meg found Greta sitting in her favorite chair and repairing a torn seam from one of the show's many costumes.

"Greta?" The older woman gave the blonde dancer a critical eye. "Can you please watch Gustave for the duration of our song? It will be mere minutes, and then we'll be back. Please?"

The head costumer was relieved, apparently, that the request was a minor one, of little inconvenience. She nodded and grunted out a "ja."

Having tied up all loose ends, the brunette singer agreed to her friend's suggestion. Gustave crawled onto the chaise and was given a shawl from Suzanne, who sat nearby. He settled his head onto the round, plush pillow and quietly took in his surroundings.

The remainder of the half-hour passed quickly, and Meg used one of the changing screens to afford her some privacy. Gustave was still awake, although he was fading as the minutes ticked by. Places were called, and the majority of the room's occupants left to await the start of the day's final show. Meg left, too, and grabbed Christine's hand, as she passed.

"I'm sorry for avoiding you, earlier."

Christine gratefully smiled. "You know how much I care for you, don't you?"

Meg nodded. "Yes. And you know I feel the same for you, right?"

"I do."

Their hands squeezed lovingly, then released to part their connection. Meg left for the stage, and Christine let Greta's assistant pin her curls into the hairstyle desired for the duet.

The purple carousel dragon, christened "Louis" by Gustave, was left unridden. Boys from the audience were on every other carousel prop. Meg knew the performers considered the purple dragon to be reserved for him. Only for him.

The number concluded, and Meg hastened to center stage behind the colorful scrim. Next to the chorus girls hidden in the stage left wing, Gangle hissed to the main dancer.

"Where is he?"

Meg shrugged, as she took her first pose. The lead emcee was unable to question her further, as the scrim raised and the welcoming song began. When it concluded, she rushed offstage to the dressing room. She was relieved to find Gustave there, asleep and undisturbed. Changing into her white tutu, there was no time to hold a conversation with Christine. The soloist was already dressed and ready. Once Meg, too, was in costume with her hair half down, the two nodded to Greta and went to leave the room.

Outside, Fleck was waiting near the door. Meg gave her a knowing look and leaned back into the room, speaking loudly enough for the small woman to easily overhear.

"I'll be right back to take him to his room, Greta. Don't let anyone disturb him, is that clear?"

Meg heard the deep-voiced "ja" in response, as she left the room. Fleck glared at her but said nothing, as the graceful blonde took the brunette songstress's arm. The two walked briskly to their entry positions, on opposing sides of the stage.

_Greta might be the only other person, besides Erik, that Fleck begrudgingly respects. And, if he's planning what I think he's planning, she'll report back to him before making a decision that he might not approve of. Also, she knows Christine and I will be returning, now. Christine will be expecting to see her son._

The duet went smoothly, and, this time, the heartfelt moment shared onstage was genuine. The final audience of the night boldly applauded, with the occasional cat-call and whistle for the two beauties. Christine and Meg reunited, walking back to Greta's domain.

Fleck was nowhere in the vicinity, and Gustave was still sound asleep. Greta and her assistant rose from their seats to attend to Christine's change. Before allowing them to dress her, she bent over the chaise and gave her boy a light peck. Meg grabbed her robe from the chair she'd laid it on earlier, removing the tutu and placing it on the hanging rack with her other costumes. Once the robe was securely fastened, she gingerly picked the young lad up in her arms and nodded to Christine.

The hall was mercifully empty, and Meg made the short trek to the guest room without a confrontation. Gustave was hunched over her chest, his head supported on her shoulder, and his arms wrapped around her neck. She shifted her weight slightly to free her right arm to open and then shut the main entrance into Christine's living area. There was no hesitation with what to do with Gustave. He was placed in the large bed, his shoes removed, still in his clothes.

Meg looked at the precious boy. He slept deeply. She envied how relaxed he was. Completely serene. Satisfied that he was as comfortable as he could be, she left the room to sit in the parlor and wait.

She didn't have to wait for long.

The door handle slowly turned, and Fleck peeked into the room. Seeing Meg sitting on a chair near the door to the bedroom, she narrowed her eyes and stepped in. Followed by Gangle.

"Is he in bed?" The lanky man asked without pretense.

"He is. And what, may I ask, are you two doing here?"

Both emcees advanced toward Meg, who stood and took a strong stance in front of the closed door. The small defiance stopped Gangle and Fleck, who used the dead space to try a new tactic.

"You're needed onstage," Gangle tried.

"I doubt that."

He sneered at her refusal and walked closer.

"Come one more step, and I'll scream. Gustave will wake in a panic, and I will order him to run from you."

As he neared, her words became louder, solidifying her threat. He stopped in his tracks. Meg rewarded his compliance with a quieter volume.

"I may not be aware of what he is up to as _you_ are, but I'm fairly certain that he'd prefer Gustave to not be frightened of whatever he has planned for him."

Both lackeys frowned and said nothing.

"Tell him I said no. I won't move from this spot. Not until Christine comes back."

Fleck looked to Gangle. His eyes were trained on Meg, completely furious. She stared back, resolutely. "Go," she said firmly.

He straightened, stiff as a board, looking especially thin. Fleck turned as if bored by the exchange, and he soon followed. They left the door open, and Meg crossed the room after their departure to close it. Then she returned to the chair, waiting for the next wave.

Erik took longer to arrive. Longer than she anticipated. She was almost nodding off, her cheek resting against the hand held up by the armrest. _So tired…so tired…_

He burst through the door; no timid entry, no polite greeting. Meg snapped to attention, standing and resuming her vigil.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"It took me some time to figure it out. But, I should have guessed. You _are_ Edmond Dantes, after all, aren't you, Erik?"

"What are you babbling about?"

_I suppose I do sound a bit delirious_, she inwardly grimaced. "You gained Gustave's trust, just like Dantes did with Albert. But you had a different purpose in mind than revenge. Where were you going to take him?"

Erik's eyes appraised her, a modicum pleased with both her deduction and the literary comparison. He slowly crossed closer to her, but froze in place when she went rigid.

"You aren't going to stop me, Meg," he stated, ignoring her question.

"You aren't giving me a choice, Erik," she shot back. "Am I right? Were you going to take Gustave somewhere, tuck him away, and then force Christine to come with you to retrieve him? Then what? Stay in hiding and hope that you can, over time, convince them to love you? Convince _her_ to love you? And just hope that, against all odds, her husband would not scour the earth for her and his son? Are you mad?"

He glowered at her. "Leave me, Meg," he growled. "Get away from that door right now. I don't have time for this."

"No! Stay away, or I'll scream!"

The smile that swept across his face was menacing. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and slowly stepped toward Meg.

"I mean it, Erik! Stay back or I'll scream!"

"And I will muffle the sound. As I did eight years ago. I will leave your unconscious body here, take the boy, and have Gangle drag you back to your room." He gave her a pitying look, then, slightly softening his crazed expression. "You can't win, Meg. Please step away. I don't want to have to do this…"

_He's right_, she thought sadly. _I can't overpower him. I doubt I'll outlast him. Christine, hurry! If I can get around him, I can run down the hall, making a fuss…_

She hesitated. He held out the handkerchief, almost within an arm's length of her. She nodded quickly and moved from his path. The pitying look was wiped from his face and his countenance hardened. As she stepped around him, she felt his hand wrap firmly around her forearm. She faced him and he stared into her.

Meg realized, then, that he was in a conundrum. He didn't want to let her go; he knew she would warn her friend. There was no choice, really. He held the white cloth up, and Meg could see that it was dampened with some type of chemical. As it neared her, she flinched. And he hesitated.

She took the brief opportunity to take up more of his precious time.

"When you told me about the choice you gave Christine…eight years ago…"

He was frozen in place, his hand still a vise on her arm, the drenched fabric in midair. The Phantom was too interested in what she had to say to silence her at that moment.

"You said…you said…"

His jaw clenched, impatient for her to finish.

"You gave her a choice? Stay with you, and the Vicomte would live? Or run away and know that, in doing so, she would forfeit his life?"

He nodded stiffly.

Her voice came out as a whisper, and she took a bold step closer to him. "If she had left, and you had killed him, would you have left her alone? Truly? To live her life without you?"

The hand holding the handkerchief dropped to his side, but his hand on her arm held tightly as he pulled her closer. "Never!" he declared.

"Are you ready, then, for her husband to do the same? Hunt you down, making you flee with your prize, not being able to have your little songbird perform in front of thousands?" Her eyes pleaded, tearing up as she leaned into his chest. He looked down at her to meet her sorrowful gaze. "Are you willing to abandon _Phantasma_, your life's true work, a labor of love…for _her_?"

His head tilted in silent contemplation.

"I knew, I _knew_ that something was wrong," Christine's voice rang out in the heavy moment. Erik and Meg stepped away from each other and faced the diva. She was still in full costume. "I finished my song and came straight here. Meg, you know when I am distressed. I daresay, I'm quite knowledgeable when it comes to your moods as well, even after all these years apart."

Erik grabbed Meg's upper arm and pulled her toward the door. Christine watched with her mouth agape, wondering what could have transpired between them. He shoved the former ballerina through the door and spoke so that only she could hear him.

"You'll regret this," he threatened, then closed the door to shut her out.

Meg paused, utterly confused about what to do next. _Should I go back inside? Is Gustave safe? Is Christine safe? What can I do?_ She listened for a minute, her ear straining to hear anything on the other side of the thick plank of wood. She heard nothing.

Something in her broke, then. For seemingly no reason at all. She felt weighted down by the emotional convergence of everything the past week had put her through. Trudging back to her room, she was too tired to yawn. Too exhausted to cry. Too beleaguered to care. About anything.

By the time she made it to her door, she made a decision.

In Christine's room, the married woman crossed to the bedroom to check on her son. Gustave was, miraculously, still fast asleep, and unburdened by the drama that had apparently taken place before her arrival. She closed the bedroom off and only then looked to the Phantom, who was staring at the door he had closed on Meg.

She sat on the sofa, her gown uncomfortably restricting her breath. Eventually, the Phantom turned and walked toward her. He looked restless, annoyed, impatient. His eyes darted to anything but her, and Christine had the distinct feeling that he wished to pace the floor to release some of the energy flowing through him.

"Is there something you want to say, _Erik_?"

He looked at her, then. It was his turn to drop his jaw at hearing his love speak his given name for the very first time. But it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Years of waiting for her, years of wanting her to call out to him lovingly…but not like this. Not taunting. It made him angry.

"She told you my name?"

"No, she didn't, actually."

He scoffed at the denial. _Curse you, you little lying Delilah…_

"How long has Meg known your name, then? Your real name?" she calmly questioned.

"I don't want to talk about her!"

"And I don't wish to talk about anything else, so I'm afraid we're at an impasse." She stood up with enough confidence to make a charging animal retreat. "Either answer my questions, or leave me to retire for the night. I have three shows tomorrow, and my contract with you is fulfilled. Then, Raoul, Gustave, and I will leave Coney Island."

"No more talk of taking Meg with you? Leaving your poor friend to the mercy of the savage Phantom?" His tone was acidic.

Christine studied him, before answering. "I would never force her to leave. And nothing I say seems to change her mind. Unlike present company, I cannot fathom tearing her away from where she wishes to be."

Erik smiled triumphantly, despite the attack to his character. _It's not ideal, but I will postpone taking her child until tomorrow. During the first show, as soon as-_

"I answered your questions. The least you can do is answer mine."

He was pulled from his scheming with her confusing words. The look on his face was enough to convey this, as Christine continued.

"How long has Meg known your name? How did she find it out?"

"I told her," he spoke without giving a thought. The answer was reflexive. Simple.

"_When?"_

He narrowed his eyes at the emphasized word. _Why does she care to know?_ "Eight years ago."

Christine gave a shrewd smile, putting a puzzle together piece by piece that only she could see. She slowly lowered herself to be seated. "Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised she wouldn't share it with me. Unless…did you order her not to tell me?"

"No." _Why are we still talking about Meg? Why am I answering her?_

"_Why_ did you tell her your name?"

"She asked," he blurted out.

Christine nodded. "I never did."

"No." _Why didn't you ever ask me, Christine? How could you be satisfied with calling me "Angel" or "Phantom," once you knew I was a man?_

"Do you wish I had asked for you to tell me your real name?"

He paused, thrown off by her pulling the question from the thoughts that were still fogging up his mind. He was confused and worried about where this conversation would lead.

"Yes."

"And surely you must know, deep down you must know…why I never did," she spoke evenly. Unaffected by the monster in her room. He held his breath. Whatever came next would be hurtful, he knew it. "First you were my angel. The Angel of Music. Sent by my father in heaven. Who asks an angel for his name? Either it is given to you, or it is withheld. I had your title, that was enough.

"But then, that night in my dressing room after _Hannibal_, you appear in my mirror. And as soon as I take your hand, the idyllic picture is replaced. With you. The Phantom of the Opera. A man, a mortal being who terrorizes our theater. I realize, in that moment, that you are no angel. You only manipulated me into believing those lies. And I was a fool to trust you so blindly. Why would I want or need to know the name of the Opera Ghost?

"And still, there was magic in that moment. I saw beautiful things, _heard_ beautiful things. But I awoke from that trance, and sought you, hoping that there was something in your soul that was redeemable."

"You unmasked me, stripping me of my dignity," he spat through gritted teeth. "And then you recoiled in horror at what you saw!"

"I _was _terrified by your appearance, initially, but you rounded on me in the next instant, roaring at me and threatening me. _That_ was what made me 'recoil in horror,' more so than your face."

Erik paused, again, remembering the interaction from so long ago. He could recall the fury he felt, when he had been so unceremoniously unmasked. "_You little viper! Now you cannot ever be free! Damn you! Curse you!"_

"I don't think I will ever understand how she can love a cruel man like you."

The statement was too stark a transition for him to process it correctly. His mind was still in the past. He squinted his eyes at the brunette and repeated her words in his head, but they made no sense. Before he could say anything to refute the sentence, Christine continued.

"When you returned me to the Opera House, my thoughts, when it came to you, were of one thing and one thing only: escape. I don't know what you've done to Meg, but I fear that you will be her undoing." She stood, wearily. "I can't take her away from you because that's the one thing she doesn't want. And I am _not_ cruel. Not like you."

Christine walked to her bedroom, but paused with her hand on the door handle. She turned toward him again and saw that he was waiting for something more.

"You don't deserve her love."

She opened the door slowly, quietly. When she walked through the door, she went to close it behind her. His strapping, black-clad form was still there. A statue in the middle of the room.

"Leave me, Phantom."


	12. None to Borrow

**Hello, readers! **

**Long time no talk, hmm? Thank you for reviewing. While encouraging and appreciated, they don't normally fuel my muse to make me write any more quickly. But, these are hardly "normal" times. Wanting another chapter before my usual posting? You've got it!**

**I hope all of you are well, wherever you are, and whatever you are going through. Trying times, indeed. To quote a favorite, well-known lyricist:**

_**Just remember…  
**__**Someone is on your side  
**__**Someone else is not  
**__**While you're seeing our side  
**__**Maybe we forgot  
**__**They are not alone  
**__**No one is alone  
**__**Someone is on your side  
**__**No one is alone.**_

**To conclude this long author's note, I am repurposing (and slightly altering) "Why Does She Love Me" from LND. Not a bad song, but I've always found that the lyrics fit a different character, more so than the man they're assigned to.**

**Be well, and happy reading!**

**Jenn**

* * *

Erik stood in the middle of the parlor, left alone. Christine was in the bedroom, where her son already slept, done with talking for the night.

After the things Christine had said…revealed…Erik was rendered speechless. He realized his love had only said his name the one time. At the beginning of their conversation, when Christine addressed only him. It broke his heart, to have her know an intimate detail about himself, but to use it as a weapon against him. She never cared to know his name.

_Meg must have let it slip_, he assumed.

And now that Christine knew, she refused to use it. _"Leave me, Phantom."_ He was no longer a man, he was the Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. But without an opera house to haunt. That seemed more hurtful, for some odd reason.

He stood there for a few more minutes, unsure what to do. His plans had been dashed, night after night. Christine was being more difficult than he could have ever anticipated. She was talented, more so than the majority of her generation. _Why would she waste her precious time on this earth as a common wife and mother?_

There was nothing to be done tonight. His last resort was stealing her son away, so that she would be forced to leave with him. They would hide from Raoul, Erik would charm Christine, as he did with Meg…

_Meg…_

Christine's friend. And, in many ways, Christine's opposite. Meg was…amenable. She relished performing. Every aspect of _Phantasma_ fascinated and excited her. Christine, since she had arrived, didn't appreciate the dark beauty the show offered. This was supposed to be a serendipitous reunion. Erik was immensely proud of the song he composed for his former pupil; _she_ treated it as a burden. Completely unappreciative.

"_You placed her name in _my _spot on the marquee…You removed my solo from the program…"_ Meg had voiced her displeasure, several nights ago.

Erik was subconsciously pulled to the opposite side of the theater. His steps brought him to Meg's door. He placed an ear against the hardwood surface, but he could hear nothing. And no light emanated from underneath. He paused, staring at the door, as if he could see through it to the inside. Then he made his way back to his own room, his mind temporarily empty of all thought.

But when he entered his room, he was confronted by the larger-than-life portrait of Christine. Younger, flawless, coquettish. He imagined the painting saying the same scathing words the real version had just spoken.

"_I don't think I will ever understand how she can love a cruel man like you…You don't deserve her love."_

He averted his eyes from the damning vision on the wall and paced the room in thought.

Meg was…well, someone special to him, most certainly. Not exactly a companion. Somewhat a partner, although he still held ultimate creative jurisdiction. He enjoyed their discussions. She was as witty and intelligent as she was beautiful. It was a pity she was not exceptional in her talent. Her dancing was fine, better than most, but she possessed no innate ability that others in her craft could not work toward. Although, she had proven to be quite the jack of all trades, when it came to the various theatrical duties she had taken on.

Choreographer, costume designer, lead act, prop and set conceptualizer, talent recruiter… he smiled thinking of how far she'd come in eight years. Eight years with _him_.

He couldn't imagine Meg leaving _Phantasma…_leaving him. Not that she couldn't succeed on her own. He knew she would thrive, based on her own work ethic and resourcefulness. But love…

She…Meg…loved him? _She doesn't know me. Not all of me. She's never seen behind my mask. And she never will._ How could someone love another without full disclosure?

The night passed, hour by hour, with a restless Phantom racking his brain to disprove Christine's allegation that Meg was in love with him. Not just loyal. Not dependent, not simply satisfied…but in love. With him.

"_I told her you were my manager and that, yes, I was safe…"_ That seamstress from forever ago. The one who spoke broken French to Meg. Meg didn't take the opportunity to make a fuss or pass her a private note.

"_Why won't you kiss me?"_ she had asked him, on a night fraught with emotional confrontation. "_We kissed on the ship, so why not now?"_

Memories flooded his mind of their eight years together. _Phantasma_ becoming a reality. Meg seeking his approval for her various contributions to the ever-changing show. Her delight at proudly performing all of the numbers he'd written for her over the years. Their easy conversations and passionate intimacy. How he'd smile down at her in the wings, when she would look up to where he stood and try to see him in the darkness.

He hadn't formally composed anything, but he sang as easily as if he was reading the many uncompleted thoughts.

"_She looks for sympathy,  
__I give her sorrow.  
__She asks for honesty,  
__I've none to borrow._

"_She needs my tender kiss.  
__She begs it off me.  
__I give her ugliness,  
__Why does she love me?"_

He thought, again, to the interactions with Meg after Christine's arrival.

"_You placed her name in _my_ spot on the marquee," _she had lamented on Wednesday night, clearly hurt by his favoring the brunette songbird. _"You removed my solo from the program. And you gave her roses… We've had other guest performers, before. You've never placed their names above mine or took away any of my numbers. And you never gave any of _them_ flowers." _

Their similar interaction on Thursday night. When he had waited in Meg's room, without invitation, to confront her for speaking to Christine about him.

"_I did you a _favor_. She didn't understand any of this."_

Meg had always supported his endeavors. In the beginning, it was because she had no choice in the matter. Not really. But he had afforded her more and more freedoms. And watching her enthusiasm grow for the show…their show…

He took a deep breath and continued his melancholy song.

"_She yearns for higher things  
__Things I won't give her  
__The rush my music brings  
__I don't deliver_

"_Though I control her strings  
__She soars above me  
__I try to clip her wings…  
__Why does she love me?"_

Erik was furious, when Christine promised to persuade Meg to return to Europe with her. Looking back, he couldn't explain exactly why he was so damned enraged at the idea of Meg leaving. It had been many years since he had granted her complete independence. If she wanted to leave, he would let her. Wouldn't he? Yes, she hadn't been his prisoner for a long time, now.

And the relief that washed over him when Christine said, earlier, that she would no longer try to change her friend's mind on the matter. Because Meg _wanted_ to stay.

_Meg wants to stay._

_Christine…doesn't._

He stopped his pacing. There was no more to debate within himself. Not tonight, anyway. He removed his jacket, his vest, and his shoes, then collapsed in his bed. The mask was still pressed against his skin. He took it off, as well, setting it down on the nightstand alongside him.

For the first time in a very long time, he had a dream about Paris.

_His eyes adjusted in the darkness of the walkway above the stage. The upper portion of the grand theater was purposefully left unlit at all times. Even if a new backdrop needed to be placed, light was only temporarily shone from lanterns kept safely offstage. It was the perfect environment for the Opera Ghost to watch the musical performances below. _

_Occasionally, he would spot the stagehand, Joseph Buquet, also using the rafters for solitude. The older man was usually drinking while working, and his perceptive abilities were already poor when the miscreant was sober. On this occasion, Buquet was, indeed, in his favorite spot, leaning on a rail and drinking from a flask. He stared down at the stage, now empty after Christine's debut in "Hannibal."_

_When, all of a sudden, it wasn't empty. _

_Two young women made their way, taking slow, measured steps across the vast expanse of wooden flooring. One had long, brunette curls. She wore a frilled, full, white gown. Her pale shoulders and arms glowed like porcelain in the dim light. The crystalline jewels in her hair sparkled, though not as brilliantly as they had glittered in the brighter stage lights. Her companion had silky, blonde hair, held half up in a plain white ribbon that limply hung atop her less-curly locks. She wore the white corset and matching tutu that was merely the foundation of the ornate ballet costume used in the final act of "Hannibal." Her pointe shoes clicked softly on the floor with each step._

_As the two walked, unknowingly watched from afar, they sang, starting with the blonde ballerina._

"_Where in the world have you been hiding?  
__Really, you were perfect!  
__I only wish I knew your secret.  
__Who is your great tutor?"_

_The Phantom's heart swelled with pride. Great tutor. He was, that was undisputable. As the brunette star began to answer, he leaned further toward the pair, desperate to hear more._

"_Father once spoke of an angel.  
__I used to dream he'd appear.  
__Now, as I sing, I can sense him,  
__And I know…he's…here!_

"_Here, in this room, he calls me softly;  
__Somewhere inside, hiding.  
__Somehow I know he's always with me,  
__He, the unseen genius."_

_He despised that Christine still only knew him as a figment of her imagination. He was not Erik. Not yet, anyway, but that would all change, tonight. Meg continued the back and forth._

"_Christine, you must have been dreaming!  
__Stories like this can't come true.  
__Christine, you're talking in riddles,  
__And it's not…like…you."_

_Of course it sounded like a dream to Meg. Although he had made Christine promise to not reveal his existence to anyone, he felt a certain pity for his pupil, that she couldn't share the most important part of her life with her closest friend._

_The two ladies sang interwoven melodies, Christine calling out to her Angel of Music and Meg asking for more information._

"_He's with me even now…" Christine sang, wide-eyed and frozen in place at the edge of the stage, almost at the wing. Erik tilted his head in curiosity. She sounded…scared._

"_Your hands are cold!" Meg had been holding one of the singer's hands, but now she took both of Christine's hands in her own and looked at her friend with concern._

"_All around me…"_

"_Your face, Christine, it's white!"_

"_It frightens me…"_

"_Don't be frightened."_

_Erik sneered at the unwarranted response. He had never given Christine a reason to fear him. She did not know he was the Phantom of the Opera, did she? How could she? How would she react, once he revealed himself to her?_

_Meg gave her worried friend a gentle embrace. Christine looked oddly stiff. Like a paper doll. Not a confident diva._

_Buquet watched the exchange, as well, from his perch. He chuckled, adding a bit of levity to the troubling conversation between the two clueless girls. After taking another swig off his flask, he trudged less than gracefully toward the staircase that would take him down to the ground level. _

_Seeing where he meant to go, Erik headed in the opposite direction, determined to make his way to the hall behind the two-sided mirror in the prima donna's official dressing room. It was an entrance to his domain that he seldom used, especially after la Carlotta took the contract for the Opera Populaire. This would be Christine's first time using the room, and Erik did not wish to lose one second of being so near to her._

_This is it, he thought while traveling, I'll make a dramatic entrance to thrill and impress her. She deserves nothing less, after the perfection she showcased on my stage this evening._

_But when he arrived, he saw trouble through the looking glass. _

_Some nobleman…the new patron! A vicomte. In the room with her. Alone with her._

_She had changed out of the voluminous costume, and, somehow, had removed all of the starburst clips from her thick hair. She sat demurely at the vanity in the room, wearing a white robe that left little to the imagination._

_He couldn't hear what was being said. His wrath deafened him. But he could tell that they were speaking familiarly. She was smiling. The vicomte was gazing at her in adoration. As the younger man left, he raised his voice, and the Phantom leaned forward to hear every word._

"_Well, I shan't keep you up late!"_

"_Raoul, no."_

_Erik narrowed his eyes, hearing his angel use the vicomte's name so informally._

"_You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte."_

_Little Lotte? A pet name? Already? Erik frowned harder. The vicomte left the room before Christine could effectively stop him, standing from her seat to call out._

"_No! Raoul, wait!" Her request did not penetrate the door, and she collapsed back onto the chair in exasperation._

_This was it. It was now or never._

"_Insolent boy!  
__This slave of fashion,  
__Basking in YOUR glory!_

"_Ignorant fool!  
__This brave young suitor,  
__Sharing in MY triumph!"_

_Christine trembled in fear. He was not displeased. This time, she had reason to fear him._

_But a knock at the door interrupted their moment. Erik clenched his teeth, absolutely livid._

_Christine looked to the door, equally surprised. It opened without an encouragement to the visitor, and it was Meg who peeked through tentatively. Thankfully, she shut the door behind her and smiled at Christine. She, too, had changed out of the rest of her costume. Her hair was still held up with the same ribbon, but strands of gold fell around her heart-shaped face. Oddly, she had a robe that was similar to Christine's. When Erik took the time to examine them more scrupulously, he noticed everything they wore was identical, from their robes to their white slippers._

_Meg was slightly shorter and much curvier than Christine, and they were currently in an embrace. Christine was calmer, now, comforted by her friend._

_The hallucinogenic powder was ready to rise through the mist of fog he had prepared for this moment. There was enough to affect Meg, as well. He could take her friend right from under her nose. Christine would be too entranced to refuse. And Meg would be complacent in her drugged state, happy to sit in a world of enchantment around her. She'll see what she wants to see…_

"_I am your angel,  
__Come to me, Angel of Music!"_

_The words reverberated within the room, startling Meg. Christine, however, looked both horrified and curious. The latter rooting her to her spot. As the mirror parted, the laced smoke wafted toward both young ladies. They did not react to it, as he knew it to be odorless._

_He intended to show himself through the mirror, but nothing had gone to plan. It was all improvisation. The reveal would be less grand, but spellbinding, nonetheless._

_The mirror opened to reveal a doorway, and he lit the torch as it slowly did so, trusting that their awe and haze would keep them from retreating. He was right._

_Both of them looked directly at him. And as they did so, their faces changed drastically. Meg took a step toward him, while Christine stepped back. Meg looked serene, fascinated, delighted. Christine was pure fear. Her eyes darted around the room, apparently distressed with what her surroundings had morphed into. She couldn't or wouldn't look at him. _

_Erik stepped toward his angel, trying to soothe her. He held out a gloved hand._

"_I am your Angel of Music!  
__Come to me, Angel of Music!"_

_Meg stayed in place, staring into Erik's eyes. His face was still turned to Christine. The terrified girl made a hasty exit, not bothering to take anything with her. He called out to her once more._

"_Christine! Angel!"_

_His heart shattered in his chest. This had all gone so wrong. So horribly wrong. He planned everything, he had improvised when needed, and she left anyway. Not just left…fled. In horror._

_Remembering that he was not alone in the room, he glanced to Meg. _

_She stood in place, waiting. Somehow, she had picked up Christine's rose from its spot on the vanity. Beautiful red bulb, a stark contrast to her fair features. The black ribbon trailing from the base of the lovely flower's head. Dainty fingers clasped it delicately, wrapping around the thorn-filled stem._

_He regarded her. Unlike her friend, she did not seem to be adversely affected by the hallucinogen. She stared with wonder at him, as if she could see and forgive all of his sins at once. _

_Erik turned to leave, dejected that his angel would not follow him. He had beautiful things to show her and more to teach her. _

"_No!" _

_He looked over his shoulder to make sure he'd heard correctly. Meg was looking at him with pleading eyes. He faced her, then, and saw blood seeping through her fingers. The hand that held the rose was clenched, and the unforgiving thorns caused her pain that she did not acknowledge. _

_He winced at the droplets of red marring her smooth skin. The powder was supposed to heighten all feelings, including pain. There was no possible way for her to not feel the harm she was causing to herself. He sighed. He didn't wish to see her hurt. He held no ill-will toward her. _

_As he drew closer to her, she lessened her grip on the stem and smiled hopefully at him. He held out the same gloved hand, which she took without hesitation. The hand that held the rose dropped to her side, as they made their way through the passage. Red drops occasionally fell onto the dusty bricks that lined the floor. _

_His dream-self materialized them instantly to the small ferry. Meg's hand no longer showed signs of being maimed, and she smelled the rose happily, while Erik rowed them to his lair. He helped her from the boat, lustfully taking in her pleasing form. She left the rose behind, joining him in the candlelit cavern._

_He had imagined Christine here. He would help _her _from the ferry. She would be hesitant, sure, but adventurous. He would placate her fears with a song. He would sing to her of the beauty that darkness held._

_Meg looked up at him, a little shy…a little playful. Erik held her and she did not protest. She was down here with him. In the dark. In the night. Christine was not._

_With both hands, Meg cupped the sides of his face. She did not seem intent on unmasking him, so his anxiety lessened. He smirked winningly down at her and pulled her tightly against him, relishing the curves of her body pressing into his broad frame. As he bent down to kiss her parted lips, she let out an ardent moan. His desire for her engulfed him, and he deepened the kiss._

_She saw it….the beauty underneath. She saw it, without having to see the worst of him. She accepted him, without demanding to know everything._

_He kissed her harder, thankful that he felt no need to break for air._

_It was her. All along. Right under his nose. Little Meg. _

_She would help him make the music of the night._


	13. Time to Wait

Although she slept soundly, Meg awoke still exhausted from the dramatic events of the previous night. Her spirits lifted, when she looked at the clock and realized she would finally be able to go for a morning swim. She rolled her head atop her neck, loosening the stiff muscles, and dressed quickly for the docks.

Leaving her room, she held her breath as the door closed. The hallway was perfectly empty, and there was no sound coming from any direction. She exhaled and made her way through the theater to the back exit.

Outside, the air was crisp; most shops were closed and there were few carriages on the street. Meg shivered with excitement, stepping away from the doorframe and turning to quietly close the door behind her.

"Miss Giry! Oh, I'm sorry… Miss Addie!"

Meg's eyes widened in shock, before she turned to see Christine's husband leaning out the window of his carriage. The horses' clopping feet were mostly muffled by the gravel road they traversed. The vehicle came to a stop and the Vicomte eagerly hopped out without assistance. The driver unloaded his luggage and placed the items alongside the door, before taking his fare and leaving to find other employment.

"I'm so sorry," the Vicomte started, grabbing his suitcase and a satchel from next to Meg, "but, if you wouldn't mind, could you please hold the door?"

Meg's hand was still on the doorknob, as she had not completed the task of closing it before Raoul had called out.

"Of course, it's no trouble at all, _monsieur_," she politely went back through the door to hold it open properly.

"Thank you," the grateful man replied. "And good morning to you! I wanted to arrive early, but I'll feel terrible if I disturb Christine or Gustave's sleep. Is there somewhere I can relax for a bit, until I go surprise my family?"

"I was actually…" _On my way out_, she finished in her mind. It wasn't his fault that he had terrible timing. She forced herself to reflect, instead, upon her friend's happiness that would be guaranteed with her husband's arrival. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm famished!" Meg nodded and started to lead him toward the kitchen, while he continued talking. "My driver arrived before dawn. I anticipated leaving early to be here before your first show of the day, but I assumed that I would be able to stop _en route_ for breakfast. Instead, the man rushed us here! Everything is still closed!"

The two were in the kitchen, and Raoul went to the closest table to place his bags and coat on a chair. Meg sighed quietly as the cordial man chatted away, no idea that he had, once again, interrupted her morning routine. She went to the cupboard and paused.

"Coffee? Tea?"

"A coffee would be wonderful, thank you."

She took the necessary items down from the cupboard and began the brewing process. Now that her morning swim was most likely canceled, she would take a cup, herself. The cold waves were usually enough to invigorate her for the day. It felt like ages ago, since she had been able to go out. _It's been a long week,_ she inwardly lamented.

"How did the rest of the performances go this weekend? I'm looking forward to watching these final shows, today."

"They went well." Meg's lip twitched when she remembered the Phantom's admonishment of her missing her entrance. "Well enough, anyway. Another number was added. It's a duet between myself and Christine."

"A duet?" he smiled. "I can hardly bear the suspense! Do you sing with Christine? Or does my wife dance with you?"

"She doesn't dance, and I only sing a few lines," the blonde woman shrugged modestly.

"Well…one more thing to look forward to!" Raoul encouraged his wife's oldest friend. "And how has Gustave dealt, in my absence? Hopefully he wasn't too much of a burden!"

"No, not at all," Meg spoke softly. "We've grown quite fond of him. The whole company. He has a happy routine. He and Squelch have sequestered a spot in the wings where they play games."

The handsome gentlemen pursed his lips and worried his brow with mild embarrassment. "Ah, now, which of the performers is Squelch?"

The hour passed quickly, with Meg serving croissants and a banana custard. They spoke of his family's voyage to America, his and Christine's home in Montpellier, and his short excursion to visit Jack Astor in his home in Rhinebeck.

"We'll be staying in Astor House tonight, actually. I had planned on staying there when we'd first arrived, but it was booked. Have you seen it?"

_I stayed there with Erik… _"I have," Meg smiled tightly, revealing nothing. "It's very…elegant."

"I made the reservation for the next night, for the duration of our stay in New York. Apparently, that's how Jack Astor heard of me and was able to contact me. He had some…interesting business proposals. Oh! And he had some insider information that a new luxury ocean liner is being commissioned. By White Star Line, I believe? Should be the largest ship ever built! Amazing, what they're doing with travel, nowadays. I'm sure he and his wife will set sail on its maiden voyage, judging from his enthusiasm."

"That all sounds fascinating," Meg tried to muster enough excitement to help the moment pass. She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. The chimes had been disabled ever since its arrival to the kitchen, but it still showed an accurate time. "Christine should be awake, I believe. Shall I take you to her?"

Raoul's smile faded and he checked his own pocket watch. Surprise registered on his face, and he looked back to Meg with an apologetic countenance.

"I've kept you too long, already. I apologize, but I do appreciate getting to know you better. Christine always spoke of you so fondly. There is no doubt in my mind that your reunion has greatly eased the pain she felt when she – when we – thought you were…lost. What an unexpected blessing, running into you in the most random of happenstance, after all these years!"

He nodded once, then left the room with his belongings, heading down the hall to the guest quarters he had left only three days ago.

Meg hadn't known how to react to the spontaneous heart-to-heart, but, eventually, she got up and went through the motions of cleaning the small mess she'd made in the kitchen. The plates clattered, and she took deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Methodically, she cleaned and placed the used items back in their spots. As if they hadn't been touched.

According to the clock, there was only an hour until their first call. All three shows on Sundays were matinees, with mandatory cleaning of the theater to follow. Meg returned to her room and changed out of her swimwear. She took the extra time to wash her hair, towel dry it, and place the pinned curls atop her head. When she took the pins out for the duet, her hair would most likely still be damp and curlier than normal. By the second show, the curls would be perfect.

She applied a light layer of talcum powder on every part of her body, then a little rouge to her cheeks and lips, followed by a glossy salve to brighten her mouth. There was still plenty of time to put on her costume and the ridiculous headdress.

Sitting at the vanity throughout most of the process, her eyes fell onto the modest jewelry box in the back corner. She opened the lid and took out her mother's ring, placing it on her smallest finger. Holding it up to the light, she stared at her hand and wondered if it could be a mirror image of her mother's.

On the other end of the hall, Christine was ecstatic to welcome her husband.

"You're early! Oh, I've missed you so much, Raoul!"

He held her, swooping her around himself. The motion was relieving to Christine, who worried that she might cry from the stress that had accumulated in her heart.

"I missed you, too, darling. Coming back tonight was too long of a wait. Is Gustave still sleeping?"

"He is," Christine confirmed. "He's completely exhausted. Every show, he's been a part of the opening act-"

"_Every_ show?"

"With the exception of the final show yesterday, yes. But it was quite late, by then. Honestly, I'm so tired, as well. I cannot _wait_ for this day to be over. And I have so much to tell you! But I'm afraid it will have to wait until after this first show. I need to get ready. Can you stay with Gustave? Take him out to breakfast when he wakes? He'll be so happy to have time alone with his father."

Raoul had returned to her, and, Christine felt her world was made…right, again. The threats and looming presence of the Phantom were still present, but they held little weight.

Eventually, she left her room and went straight to the stage for the first call of the day. The musical director nodded respectfully in her direction and awaited the rest of the company to arrive. Meg was on the other end of the stage, sitting and stretching her toned limbs, with the rest of the dancing troupe chittering and standing around her. Christine walked boldly over, much to the delight of the chorus girls.

"Good morning to you, Addie, ladies," the world-renowned singer cheerfully greeted the troupe.

Meg was taken aback by the upswing of Christine's mood. "Good morning" was all she could return. _Clearly, her husband's return overshadowed whatever transpired between her and Erik after I left last night…_

With the entire cast anxious to begin their final workday, Mr. Bailey gave his minor corrections. Every gripe was easily corrected. Most had to do with either noted pitch problems or tempo inconsistencies.

_None from Erik, obviously,_ Meg thought to herself. Mr. Y's corrections were always stated as such. And they were usually a bit acerbic.

As for the mysterious man behind the scenes, Erik had awoken after a fitful sleep in a state of confusion and disorientation. He remembered very little of the dream that had plagued him all night, but he knew whatever he had imagined was weighing on his mind. And possibly his heart.

He rose from the bed, still fully clothed, and not under the covers whatsoever. A fleeting thought crossed his mind. _Take the boy_, he remembered telling himself. He righted his attire, affixed his mask, and brought his appearance up to his regular high standard.

When he left his room, he cursed the fact that he had slept through most of the morning. He had no wish for there to be tittle-tattle amongst the cast of a sighting of the reclusive Mr. Y. For him to be walking around backstage, he would have to be especially careful not to run into anyone.

The hallway was empty, thankfully, and he could hear that the first show was already underway. Most of the company and workers would be in their designated places, either in the wings or in their respective rooms. Once a show began, it was not permitted for anyone to be wandering unnecessarily. But, as he strode the hall toward the stage and where he would sneak off to his favorite vantage point, he heard a door open somewhere in the space behind him.

He grabbed at the nearest door handle and dashed inside, leaving it cracked open to see the passerby.

Before they walked past him, he heard young Gustave and the unmistakable voice of the Vicomte conversing excitedly back and forth. His teeth clenched in his jaw and he shut the door, infuriated by the early return of Christine's beau. The father and son passed by without knowing that they had crossed the path of an irate Phantom.

The two voices gradually faded into silence, leaving Erik to see past his anger.

He was in Meg's room.

Deep down, he had registered that it was her door that he had pushed through. He had visited often enough. But, in his haste to not be discovered, he had only thought of his escape. Not of where he might end up.

He looked around, sighing. It was fitting he was there. He needed to speak to Meg. Once and for all. They couldn't move forward without revealing their secrets. Her secret. _Why does she love me?_ he wondered, again. He stepped further into the room, noticing the multiple scents of her favorite products lingering in the air. _The talcum powder, her lotions, the smell of her lavender soap…_

As he wandered toward his own reflection in her vanity, his eyes skimmed the area. A book lay discarded in her one and only trash bin. He squinted to read the small title, then reacted with astonishment when he realized what it was.

_Le Comte de Monte-Cristo? She purchased that. Why on earth would she throw it away?_

He pulled the chair from its tucked spot and sat; then, he leaned over to remove the beloved novel from its cruel fate.

"_You _are_ Edmond Dantes, after all, aren't you, Erik?"_

Her accusation was still fresh in his mind. It brought forth another memory. Something buried in the recesses of time.

"_You are Dantes. You feel wronged by the _Opera Populaire_, betrayed by…Christine…You took your revenge against those you deemed at fault…you hurt them in the most painful way you could…"_

He placed the book on the table and closed his eyes, trying to visualize the eight-year-old memory with as much accuracy as possible.

"_But, like Edmond, you realized that…you crossed a line… You let her go. Your need for revenge resurfaced when you saw me…does that make me Haydee?"_

Erik recaptured the book in his hands and flipped through its pages to find the passage he suddenly needed to reread in the final chapter.

"_Love me then, Haydee!"_ he read. _"Who knows? Perhaps your love will make me forget all that I do not wish to remember."*_

He read the short excerpt to the end, though he didn't actually need the refresher. He knew the ending. However, he didn't find it quite as unsatisfying as he had on previous occasions.

The book returned to its newly-secured spot on the vanity, and Erik closed his eyes in the seat once more, listening to the faint sounds of _Phantasma_ seeping through the closed door.

Meg would eventually come. And, this time, he would know what to say.

Onstage, Christine awaited Meg's return from changing into her all-white costume. The blonde eventually stood beside her, having enough time to visit for the briefest of moments before their duet.

"How pleased are you, to have your husband with you, again?"

"Immensely," the brunette whispered through a smile.

"And what have you told him, about what has occurred in his absence?"

"Nothing, yet," Christine frowned slightly, then. "I will tell him everything, as soon as I have the chance."

"Where is he, now?" Meg looked out from the wings to the front row seat the Vicomte had previously occupied.

"With Gustave. Either in the room or eating brunch elsewhere."

Meg let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. There was more she needed to say, but their number was the next to show. She gave her friend a nod and smile, then trotted to her place on the opposite end of the stage. Squelch was in the back corner, being comforted by a sympathetic Fleck. As Meg passed, neither acknowledged her. Gangle was nowhere to be seen.

Their duet went smoothly, with each party savoring the last day they would ever be together onstage. Most likely, their last day together in any way, shape, or form. Christine would leave later in the afternoon, after the final Sunday show, and that would be that.

Christine hurried to the women's dressing room, allowing for Greta and her assistants to transform her with plenty of time to spare. Meg followed, but waited outside the door. She looked down the hall, not very far, to her own bedroom door. It was closed, as she'd left it. For a fraction of a second, she thought about waiting in her room, but she couldn't hide away and hope for the best. Lives were at stake.

At last, the songstress emerged, a vision in lilac. The glittering, elegant costume still impressed Meg. Christine was surprised by her friend waiting for her outside the door, but she recovered quickly and placed a hand on her heart.

"Is everything okay, Meg?" she whispered worriedly.

"No," Meg hesitated. "But, I'm-"

"Come," Christine interrupted. "Walk with me. I'm afraid that took a little longer than usual."

Meg paused to listen and was dismayed to hear that the show, indeed, had progressed further toward the end than she had expected.

They barely made it to the wing, when Christine had to take the stage for her climactic song. After that, the bows came swiftly, with Gangle appearing from the side with a single large bouquet of the Phantom's red roses for Christine. She took them with a tight smile and made one more gracious bow to her adoring public. The flowers were discarded in an even more callous manner, onto the floor of the wing where she exited.

Christine rushed back to Greta, swapping her costume and anxiously awaiting her hair to be fastened back into a perfect homage of her look in _Hannibal_. She wondered, idly, if Raoul would recognize the costume. She frowned prettily into the mirror, understanding that her considerate husband would immediately remember the iconic dress from the first night of their reunion.

_I suppose my ensemble will be the opening statement for the difficult discussion we're about to have…_

Meg sat next to her, watching the German woman complete her work. Already changed back into her opening costume, she nervously licked her lips, never meeting Christine's eyes. She thought, again, about returning to her room. But, if Christine was about to tell Raoul everything, Meg needed to be nearby to diffuse the inevitable maelstrom that would arise.

Still in Meg's bedroom, Erik's eyes opened and looked toward the door. He heard the first show conclude and the increased traffic in the hallway outside. No Meg. There was only a thirty-minute break between the first and second shows, and he expected Meg to walk through the door at any moment.

When Christine and Meg left for Christine's guest quarters, both of their hearts raced in anticipation. They arrived to an empty, dark room. No Gustave, no Raoul.

"Meg," Christine whispered, her voice shaking. "Do you think…does _he_ have them? Did he do something-"

"No," Meg forcefully responded. "You told your husband to take Gustave to dine, and that's exactly where they are. Stop looking for malfeasance where there isn't the smallest sign of it." Her tone was biting.

Christine nodded.

"Christine," Meg adopted a kinder mood. "What will happen when you tell him? Raoul?"

Her friend sent an assessing glare in her direction.

"I suppose it depends on how much I share with him. If he knew how the Phantom lured me here by threatening to kidnap our child-"

"Oh, please, Christine! Please! If anything happens to Erik-"

"I know, Meg," the diva sighed. She shook her head and leaned against the arm of the sofa. The skirt was too voluminous to sit upon. "I know. And a part of me hates that you're making me choose between what you want and what I want." She looked up to where the blonde dancer stood. "And to place your wishes above my own means that I will have to lie to the man I love. It's not fair for you to ask me to do such a thing."

Meg bit her lip nervously. There was nothing else she could say. Nothing, except…

"You're right," she blurted out. "I love him. I know I shouldn't. I know he doesn't return my feelings. But I do. And I don't want your husband to kill him. Just as you didn't want him to kill your husband."

Christine's breath caught in her throat. "He told you about that night?"

It was Meg's turn to wordlessly nod.

"Did he tell you that I've already made Raoul spare his life, once?"

The confusion in Meg's eyes was enough of an indication to make Christine continue.

"Before we performed _Don Juan Triumphant_, I stole away early one morning to visit my father's grave. Your _Erik_ was there, determined to capture me again. Raoul came charging to my rescue. He and the Phantom dueled, although it was hardly an even match. Before Raoul could end that vile man's life, I pulled Raoul away and begged him to flee with me. How many times do I owe that man his life, Meg? What do I ever get in return?"

"The knowledge that you showed compassion and charity to a man so hated, so rejected by the world? Is that not enough?" Meg's voice was trembling, now. "If you can't do it for him, again, would you please consider sparing his life for me?"

Christine looked upon her former confidant with great pity.

"I told him that I would convince you to leave New York with my family. That we would return to Europe. And that he would never see any of us ever again."

"I'm not-"

"Don't," Christine commanded. "I already know your feelings on that subject. He was livid with me, just for suggesting that I would take you from him."

Meg's heart fluttered in her chest. _That is…something…_

"He controls you like he controlled your mother." And Meg's heart dropped with that condemning statement. But Christine gave her no reprieve. "You are an asset to him, Meg. He uses you, and you love him despite his treatment of you. But it's not love, when it's not reciprocated. It's turmoil and heartache. Love is more than a feeling. It's a choice. And he'll never choose you."

Meg swallowed the lump that had amassed in her throat. She felt hollow. A glance at the mantle clock reminded her that she needed to be onstage soon.

As she turned to leave, Christine called out to her, again. She stopped mid-retreat.

"I'm so sorry, Meg. I'm terrified with what will happen, once I'm gone. I love you, dear friend, and I wish there was a way to tear you away from him without doing you more harm."

Meg hesitated. "Thank you for your honesty." She turned, then, to face Christine, again. "You will leave, and we will all move on. Will you do me a favor, though, please?"

Christine tilted her head in curiosity, nodding slowly.

"I'm not sure when, or if, I will make it to my mother's final resting place. If you go, would you mind placing flowers on her grave from me?"

"Yes, of course," Christine softly answered.

Meg left the room to return to the stage. Christine followed shortly after, mostly relieved that her husband and son had yet to arrive. The orchestra was a cacophony of noisy warm-ups, and the audience was an especially boisterous group that restlessly waited for the show to start.

The second show began and a hush fell upon the theater.

Christine in her opulent white gown, watching downstage left and waiting for the moment she would perform the duet.

Meg in her opening costume, still pinning the macabre skull headdress to her crown of curls, waiting near her dancers who whispered amusing gossip in each other's ears.

Erik growing impatient of waiting on Meg to find him in her room, finding a letter amongst her things that he couldn't restrain himself from reading.

Raoul and Gustave in the front row, waiting to applaud the performances of the matron of their family and her beloved friend.

"_Coney Isle…glistening and glimmering!  
__Rising bright…  
__Drenched in light…"_

* * *

***excerpt in quotations from Alexandre Dumas' **_**Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, **_**final chapter**


	14. Choices to Make

_"He has you. The Phantom…Erik. That is his true name…  
__I hid him in the opera house, but I didn't do much else…I didn't know what to do. I was too young…  
__I had a horrible premonition that Erik would retaliate…"_

_Yes, you knew me well enough to know that, _Erik bitterly reflected.

"…_I can imagine that he saw you and acted rashly, as he has been known to do all his life.  
__I brought him into our lives…then, I betrayed his trust. He is not a forgiving soul. I know that better than anyone."_

The letter was condemning, but Erik was pleasantly surprised to see that it was the late Madam Giry condemning herself. Her own mistakes. From her abandonment of him in the dregs of the _Opera Populaire_, to her interference in Erik's life and plans.

_"I do not know what tactics Erik will use to keep you under his control…remember, he has never felt love in his life. Nothing real…he knows nothing of giving or receiving love...  
__Stay out of his path…if he seeks to steal her back.  
__I could not protect you…Please, Meg…please protect yourself."_

The scathing words enraged him to his core. He wanted to rip it into a thousand pieces. Burn it until it was ash floating through the air. He reread the part where she had called him "rash." His teeth clenched in a silent growl and he reluctantly folded it and placed it back in the drawer where he had found it.

A strange feeling came over him. An urgency. He needed to speak to Meg. The second show was starting, but he would see her soon. There was a longer break between the second and final shows of the day. Enough time for the performers to have a meal. Meg would most certainly spend at least a portion of the time in her private haven.

Madam Giry was wrong. Even if he had never experienced it as most did, he knew love. It was sacrifice. Quasimodo and Esmeralda. Love was ardent affection. Emma Bovary and her many suitors. It was also protective. Valjean, as a father, and Marius, as a lover, for their dear Cosette. And it was transformative. As it was for Edmond Dantes.

Edmond wanted Mercédès. They were parted and forever changed by the separate paths they took. She married…had a son…

"_Haydee was written for that purpose."_ Erik recalled saying to Meg, isolated within their hidden compartment of the ship.

"_For what purpose?"_ Meg had asked him to elaborate.

"_To serve as his hope for a new life, unblemished by his painful past."_

"_So, then…does that make me Haydee?"_

Erik's eyes darted to the novel, again. His eyes widened with new clarity.

"Yes, Meg," he whispered to the empty room. "It does."

The curtain call for the second show concluded without a single red rose brought to the headliner. Christine was mildly surprised, but relieved all the same.

What she hadn't seen was Gangle taking the discarded bouquet from the first show and tossing it into the alley behind the theater. If Mr. Y couldn't be bothered with communicating more precise instructions, there was no need for the lead emcee to continue with a plan that had so spectacularly fallen apart. Gustave was with his father in the front row, Mr. Y was nowhere to be seen. Not even for those who knew where to look.

Christine saw her husband and son in the front row during the duet. The surprise on his face when she entered was exactly as she pictured his reaction to be. His countenance steeled, and he watched the rest of the number with a cold politeness. He clapped for the duo, along with the rest of the crowd, albeit less enthusiastically.

After the bows, she hurried to the women's dressing room, removing the final costume and throwing her robe on without worrying about the jewelry and accessories she still wore. Meg was suddenly beside her, but could sense that, if she wanted to keep up with her brunette friend, there was no way she, too, could change out of her white tutu. The two left the room together, and Christine was no longer concerned about Meg being with her for the conversation that was soon to take place.

She welcomed an ally.

"Raoul!" she exclaimed, bursting through the door to the guest parlor.

The Vicomte gave his wife a disappointed look, but he quickly feigned a more pleasant demeanor when he saw her friend enter behind her.

"Hello, again, Miss Giry," he addressed the blonde woman. "Gustave is playing alone, in his room. I wonder, would you mind watching over him, while I speak with my wife in private? Or do you need to go change out of your costume?"

"Um," Meg looked to Christine. Her friend nodded, and she acquiesced. "Yes, I'll just be in the other room." She walked toward the door that led to the single bedchambers. Closing it behind her, the parents heard her voice faintly greet their only child.

"Christine," Raoul began, verbally acknowledging his wife with all seriousness. "What is going on?"

"I…I'm so sorry, Raoul."

"Sorry about what, exactly? Miss Giry informed me this morning that the two of you would be performing a duet. I was surprised, given that she was keeping both her true identity and your friendship a secret from everyone else. And then I see…" he paused and ran his hand over his mouth. "You emerge looking _exactly_ as you did eight years ago! From the first night I saw you onstage in Paris! A perfect replica. And then you sing, and it's your words telling the story. You sang of the _Opera Populaire!_ Not explicitly, but I knew. I _knew_. How could such a song be contrived that quickly? Why would it exist, in the first place? What is going on? Tell me, now!"

Christine breathed deeply and made her way to the sofa. She lowered herself gracefully, placing a hand over the robe's lapels at her neck and pulling them together tightly in her fist.

"He's here," she said simply.

Raoul paled instantly, knowing too well whom she spoke of.

"The night we arrived, the horseless carriage. It was _his_," she admitted. "_He_ is Mr. Y. Danton Yelle. The producer and owner of _Phantasma_."

"Christine," Raoul spoke tersely. "Why are we here?"

She took another deep breath and looked up to the closed door to the bedroom. Where Meg was. This was it. This was the moment. The fork in the road.

"In our hotel that first night, after you left to meet with Hammerstein and Gustave was in bed…he visited."

"He _visited?_" the Vicomte gritted out.

"Our coming was no great secret. There was little Mr. Hammerstein could do, I suppose, to keep our arrival completely out of the papers. The Phantom must have heard, as well."

"No, wait," Raoul interrupted. "This cannot be the beginning. Why is Meg in his show? What happened, all those years ago? We believed him to be dead! We thought they had both perished!"

"Yes, we did. We were wrong. Meg explained what actually happened after you left to take Gustave to the park on Wednesday. The Phantom kidnapped her, and she became reliant upon him, in this foreign country. She had no way home, no way to contact us, apparently. Through the years, he granted her more freedoms, and she willingly stayed to run this odd production with him."

"Poor Miss Giry…" Raoul trailed off. He sat in the armchair adjacent to the sofa. His face hardened, while processing his unspoken thoughts. "She knew. _You_ knew. You let us enter into a contract with him…bring our son under his roof."

He stood then, and Christine saw a resolved face she hadn't seen since her days at the Paris Opera.

"Where is he? There will be no mistake about his death, this time. Where is he? Why did you agree to sing for him? How did he threaten you?" His voice raised slightly, then lowered to avoid alarming Gustave and Meg.

Christine reached for the hand that was closest to her. He let her grab it and stopped his tirade of questions.

"He didn't threaten me," she lied convincingly. "He pleaded with me to perform for him. He…missed my voice. He reminded me that I had his instruction to thank for my illustrious career." The words were convincing because they were partially true. The Phantom had, indeed, used similar phrases to initially play upon her pity for him. When that hadn't worked, he had threatened to kidnap her son.

Raoul scoffed. "That's preposterous! The way he terrorized you and everyone else in the opera house negated any credit due to him for merely enhancing your God-given talent!"

"Raoul," Christine pleaded, now. "He had no ill intentions. He used the pseudonym because that is the name he is known by, here: Mr. Y. He didn't meet with you, because he knew it would be a death sentence. And…" she hesitated, needing to tread carefully with deceiving her perceptive husband. "And he hinted that, if I agreed to perform for him, I would meet with an old acquaintance."

He sat, again. His irate mood softened, a little.

"I didn't let myself believe it could be Meg, of all people. But I'd be lying if I said that I haven't always held out hope that she was still alive." _That last part IS true,_ she asserted to herself. "He let us go; he stayed away. I have one more show, and we will leave Coney Island and never return. He knows that."

Raoul looked at her dubiously. "And when will he cross our path, again? What if he changes his mind about letting you go? What about the deaths of Ubaldo Piangi and that stagehand? When does he answer for what he has done?"

Christine sighed. She couldn't tell her love about the nightly conversations with the Phantom. It felt wrong to share the contents of the letter that she had read, without permission, from Meg's mother. But there was one more thing she could reveal.

"If you seek to punish him, you'll be hurting Meg in doing so."

Raoul was utterly confused. "How in the world-"

"She…loves him. I don't know _what_ happened, within the past eight years," Christine shook her head in dismay. "But she is not only dependent upon him. She cares for him. And, although I don't believe he has a single shred of love within him, he cares enough about her to want her here with him, too. I haven't spoken with much of the cast, here, but I gathered from the dressing room chatter and the costumes in Meg's area that she is the main attraction for _Phantasma_," Christine blushed, then, in realization of a fact that she hadn't paid much attention to, before this moment. "She's the headliner, most of the time." _When I'm not here to take that away from her…_

"He is obsessed with _her_, now?" Raoul's voice was challenging. Determined to work around his wife's misgivings and slay the monster that had reappeared in their lives.

"No, not obsessed," Christine answered thoughtfully. "I don't want you to hurt him, because I don't want to be the source of my best friend's heartbreak. We will leave here, and whatever happens will be on their shoulders. Not ours."

Meg entered the room at that opportune moment, slightly flustered. Gustave trailed her, without any cares of his own.

"I need to go change, now, and have something to eat before the final show," she excused her intrusion. Gustave went to his mother and sat next to her.

Raoul stood, in a chivalrous gesture for the lady's entrance and impending exit. "Yes, of course." Christine sat silently.

At the door, Meg paused and turned back to the family. "Will you…you won't hurt him?"

The Vicomte narrowed his eyes and stiffened at the statement that outright proved Meg had overheard their private conversation.

"I won't," he promised, his voice heavy with his reluctance to comply. "But, if we are reunited once more, I _won't_ let him go a third time. Do you understand?" Meg nodded. "If, however, you find yourself in trouble, please don't hesitate to call upon us to assist you. I will be more than happy to pay for you to return to France, whenever you wish."

Meg smiled at the kind offer. "Christine," she stared into her friend's brown eyes. "I should very much like to show you something. Would you mind if we didn't perform our duet at this last performance?"

"I shall be _very_ pleased to not wear that white gown ever again," the songstress quipped with warmth coloring her tone. "And I'm sure that I will be delighted by whatever you have to show me."

Meg nodded and left the room, satisfied that Erik was safe from Raoul's ire, and everything was, at the moment, as resolved as it could be.

She glanced at her bedroom door, still closed, but annoyed to see that she had left a light on. It would have to wait. There was much to do.

Her first stop was to Mr. Bailey. The portly man always made it a priority to eat during every meal time. His rigorous conducting required him to have a filled stomach to fuel his signature dynamic style. Finished with his meal and already back in the orchestra pit, Meg called out his name as she approached.

"Addie. What can I do for you?"

"Do you remember my first solo routine? 'Doll on a Music Box'?"

His forehead wrinkled and he rubbed his receding hairline. "Yes…why?"

"I would like to show the Vicomtess. She has agreed to forego the final performance of our duet, so that I can perform it for her."

The poor man glanced up to the ceiling of the stage, flustered by the prospect of making a change without express approval. His predecessors had been fired for less. Before he could speak, Meg continued her plea.

"Mr. Y will understand. If he is upset by the last-minute change, I will take full responsibility."

"Addie, this is most unusual. You know he will be furious, if you-"

"Yes, and I have never asked this of you. Not in the entire two years you've been with us. Never in the history of _Phantasma_, have I overridden anything on the program. Please, Mr. Bailey. Please? Will you please play my solo in place of the duet?"

"Addie, we haven't performed that in months-"

"I know you have copies of _every_ piece Mr. Y has written in your collection of sheet music. I know it's on every music stand in the pit, just in case something like this comes up."

"But, Addie, having the sheet music and playing it without notice-"

"It doesn't have to be perfect," she silenced the agitated man. "It doesn't even have to be the complete orchestra playing…have the pianist play through it as best as she can. As long as I can hear enough to count and sing along, it will be fine."

The older man sighed. "You won't leave me alone until I agree with you, is that your tactic?"

Meg gave a strained smile. A little melancholy. "I'm afraid I won't budge on this, sir. I have been a diligent performer. I deserve this small favor."

He nodded in defeat. "Very well. As long as it is the _only_ favor I am ever obligated to grant you."

She hurried to the dressing room, hungry, but determined to stave off that need for another.

"Greta?" she called out. "There's been a change in the program for this final show."

Predictably, the German woman was also unsettled with being given such little notice.

"What change? Where is _deine Freundin? _Your friend? _Die_ show _beginnt bald!"_

Meg ignored most of the costumer's speech. She had no idea what the German words meant. Instead, she grabbed her costume for her opening number and quickly dressed herself, then plopped into an empty chair to redo her hair. Most of the female cast members were in the room, as well, prepping for the final Sunday performance. The exchange between the two women had silenced most of the conversations, as the rest of the ladies listened with genuine interest.

"The duet has been replaced with my 'Doll on a Music Box' solo. Please have my entire costume ready to go, I won't have much time between numbers."

As she pinned the curls atop her head, she thought for a second and then removed the pins from her hair. She fashioned it into a high bun, on the top of her head, using the same amount of hair pins to fasten it into a smooth, perfectly-round shape. Once that was done, she removed her headdress from the table and set to work pining it into place, too. A dab of rouge and a sprinkle of powder later, she was ready to take the stage.

Meg was one of the last to leave the dressing room, as places was called. As she went to walk through the door to the hall, Christine arrived in her robe. They barely exchanged a nod, as Meg hurried to the side of the stage. She found the stage manager in the shadows and informed him of the change, as well. He frowned at the extra order, but acknowledged that he knew where the pedestal for her number was stored. He sent an idle worker to retrieve it.

Having completed the necessary tasks, she allowed herself to calm down, ignoring the hunger pains that occasionally rumbled within her. She waited in her normal place in the wings, missing Christine who most likely was changing into her lilac gown. Meg glanced at the audience, still lit by the house lights, and smiled gratefully at the filled room. In the front row, Raoul and Gustave were perched in their favorite seats. The boy was all excitement and joy. His father seemed more reserved. No longer the jubilant, unconditionally supportive husband. His eyes showed how much he longed for the day to come to a close.

_One last show, monsieur,_ she reassured him in her mind. _One final performance, before we go our separate ways._

In her bedroom, the offending light was extinguished. Erik was at a loss for why Meg had never returned. Excepting the novel that he had rescued from the trash, her room was exactly as she'd left it. He'd even pushed the chair back into its tucked position. Shutting the door behind him, he could hear the orchestra warming up in the pit. There was the hint of a familiar melody within the muddle of noise.

This would be his last opportunity to hear Christine sing. He didn't want to miss it. The voice he had conditioned, trained…and loved.

"_He was bound to love you,  
__When he heard you sing…"_

Perhaps it was he, the Phantom of the Opera, who had fallen in love with a voice. There was nothing loving about Christine, when she wasn't singing for him.

Wearing his signature black tuxedo and cape, he was a shadow that seemed to everyone to be another body milling in the background. The opening number was already through the first two verses, and the darkened stage further served to conceal him as he made his way past the cast members he employed, the stage hands he'd hired, to the winding stair that would take him to his favored vantage point high above the action.

Christine was nowhere to be found, but she had time to arrive. He saw Meg, and he could immediately tell that she was nervous. She kept her hands together at her midsection, wringing them in an anxious manner and staring at the stage without seeing any of it. He willed her to look up.

_Look up, Meg. You look up to where I am almost every performance. Look up and try to find me! I'm here! I'm here, in the darkness, and I can see you!_

The number concluded without his wish being fulfilled. She went to her spot behind the curtain and posed.

"_Welcome…each and every one,  
__To our festival of fun!"_

Ever the professional, she pranced and paraded around the set, flirting with the patrons and promoting the various acts to come.

There was something different in her appearance, but Erik couldn't tell exactly what it could be. When she finished, he watched her rush toward the ladies' dressing room to change. Christine was still not present, but he imagined they would enter together.

Christine sat in one of the many empty chairs, already in her final dress, watching as Meg silently dressed herself in a breathtaking costume. The hazardously bright pink tutu was already discarded on a table, waiting to be hung in a less-hectic moment. Meg left the white tights on, but her high-heeled boots were replaced with the white ballet slippers she wore for the duet. The headdress was carefully removed by Greta, herself, who was silent throughout the process. Under the headdress was a simple bun, done to perfection by the experienced _prima ballerina_.

A costume that Christine had seen and knew to be Meg's was laying across the chaise lounge in the room. It looked like a proper tutu, with an ivory and white lace bodice that had tiny jewels scattered and glittering in the light. The skirt going from pure white to a light blue in the subtlest of gradients also benefited from various crystals that were smattered in a whimsical way towards the lace hemline. Christine smiled at the stiff tulle that held its shape around her delicate frame.

Greta went straight to a table at the back corner of the room, retrieving two light blue arm cuffs with lacework. As she did so, Meg carefully perched on the edge of a chair and applied an appalling amount of pale powder to every inch of her skin. After caking it on as a foundation, she grabbed another container and added even more powder over the thick layer. She used a towel to dust the portions of her costume that had seen a cloud of the makeup fall upon it.

She stood and batted at the skirt, twirling back and forth to loosen any more of the excess powder. Greta helped her place the cuffs on her upper arms, in line with the strapless bodice of the costume. The older woman returned to the table and searched through one of its shallow drawers. Meg, meanwhile, turned to Christine, smiling proudly.

"Meg- er, Addie," Christine stumbled. "That costume is…absolutely incredible!"

"Thank you."

"Did you…design this?"

"I did."

"Well done," Christine complimented in awe.

Greta returned to Meg's side and motioned for the blonde to bend down. A comb with multiple blue crystals was placed securely in her hair, right against the front of her bun. Greta nodded in satisfaction and returned to her reserved chair. She held nothing in her hands, more interested in watching the diva's reaction to _Phantasma's_ star performer. The ladies were speaking in French to each other, but she needed no translation.

"You look like a porcelain figurine!" Christine said gleefully.

"Thank you," Meg replied. "Walk with me?" The two walked arm in arm, with Meg offering Greta a heartfelt "_danke,"_ as they left the room.

"This song is the first thing Erik and I worked on together," Meg quietly confided. There was no one in the hallway, but Meg didn't wish to tempt fate.

Christine was perversely curious to know more about the mysterious past the Phantom and Meg had shared, but, at the same time, she was repulsed to hear anything about her former Angel of Music. But she listened patiently, for the sake of her friend.

"On the ship, on our voyage to New York, he asked me what I wanted to perform. If I had any ideas for a musical number. I think, at that time, he realized that his kidnapping me, meant to hurt my mother, came with the consequence of also ruining _my_ life. And he wanted, from then on, to include me as much as possible in his future plans. To give me something to strive for, so that I could move on, as he intended to do."

Before entering the stage left wing, they stayed within the last few feet of the hallway.

"I told him a story, hummed him a tune, and he wrote this song. For _me_. He let me make every decision, from the choreography to the costume design. I even designed the pedestal prop for this number!"

Christine forced a smile, to be courteous to her friend, but she couldn't bear to hear Meg speak about the Phantom in such a loving way for much longer.

Meg sensed her friend's discomfort. She shivered and gave the famed singer a wide grin. "I hope you'll like it. I hope it's how you'll remember me."


	15. What Lies Ahead

There was one person, integral to Meg's number, that was not given the information he needed to play his part. Meg entered the wing, and Gangle, leaning against the back wall near Fleck and Squelch, jolted upright. He recognized the costume. He saw that the opera diva was now in her final costume of the night, instead of the opulent white gown she usually wore at this time. The gears of thought pieced the visual clues together in his mind. He swore loud enough for his companions to hear, then raced to his own position.

High above the stage, Erik also watched the entry of the two long-time friends. He, too, noted the erroneous costumes the ladies wore. It was purposeful and very much not according to the program. Anger reflexively stirred in his heart, upset by having anyone make creative decisions about _his_ show.

_Our show._

His ire subsided, with keen understanding. Meg was proud of _Phantasma._ As much as Erik. In some ways, prouder. He always kept himself hidden away. Meg was a vital part of the show. She interacted with everyone. She knew everyone's names. She was the one carrying out Erik's visions, more so than Lefevre had ever done, not to mention the two idiots that took over after the director's retirement. He entrusted her with more of the crucial alterations than the relatively new Mr. Bailey. More than his trio of emcees, which, Erik knew, made Gangle rebel occasionally to reiterate his displeasure at having to play second fiddle to a woman. Meg carried out every task with an ease that made more sense to him, now. It was easy for her, because she shared Erik's passion.

The lights went out onstage, and two stage hands in black carried the large, white, circular pedestal to its usual spot in the center. Erik looked across the top of the audience, to where the spotlight operators were scrambling to change the lighting to fit a well-known, if not oft-performed song. They pointed the large spots toward the center, removed transparent colored frames from the ends of the lenses, and waited for their cue.

Meg stepped out, much more visible in her white costume than the single stage hand that stayed to help her onto the platform. Usually, there was a better transition into this piece: a scrim hid her from view, so the illusion of her being one with the music box was kept intact. But Erik knew this was more for her friend's benefit than for the audience.

She took her opening pose and the spotlights gradually brightened to illuminate her properly. A respectful hush fell over the crowd, seeing the beauty on display. Erik's brow lifted, unable to suppress his critique. _That's much more powder than she usually wears. She hardly looks human._

The striking amount of powder made her skin look pure white. Painted. With enough of a shimmer to make her look…breakable. As if a careless bump would cause her to shatter.

Meg was frozen in place. Usually, she had a wistful smile on her face for this number, which remained in a plastered visage. Like a mask. Now, she looked forlorn. Desolate. Erik swallowed uncomfortably.

Gangle moseyed onto the stage, passing her by in a lazy version of the choreography she had given him. Still, she was a statue. He glanced at her, looking lewdly up her skirt, causing snickering amongst the patrons. Erik's gloved hands balled into fists at the improvised act.

The emcee made a full circle around the box, before coming back to its key. His hands grabbed either end of the enormous key's head, and he took a moment to smugly glare at the ballerina, before turning it multiple times. The mechanism slowly turned Meg on a disk at the top of the pedestal, and it would give her just enough time to complete her song once through. The lanky man walked off without any sign of amusement.

The orchestra played tentatively, at first, but the song swelled as the musical memory flowed through their instruments.

"_What do you see,  
__You people gazing at me?  
__You see a doll on a music box  
__That's wound by a key."_

Her movements were perfectly stiff and slight. She sang pleasantly enough, but her voice occasionally faltered where it had never done so. Mistakes that were mostly undetected by the untrained ear.

"_How can you tell…  
__I'm – under a spell…  
__I'm – waiting for love's…first...kiss!"_

Her voice cracked in a more obvious manner on the last word of the stanza. From his overhead view, Erik saw a tear splash onto her clavicle, creating a streak through the white powder. A crack. The dancing was still flawless, but her emotional descent severely impacted her singing.

"_You cannot see,  
__You people gazing at me,  
__Turning around on this music box  
__That's wound by a key…"_

More tears. More droplets of water that wiped away the white shimmering powder. Streaks that met in similar paths, showing even more of her natural skin tone. The porcelain ballerina was no longer perfectly intact. Erik couldn't see her face, but he imagined it, too, was a mess of tracks.

"_Yearning…"_

Her voice broke and wavered.

"_Yearning…"_

She pleaded to the audience, her arms outstretched to no one. To a ghost, perhaps.

"_While…I'm…  
__Turning around and around."_

She whispered the final words to her song. The audience was silent, but Erik doubted half of them could hear or understand the final verse.

The song played out, with the final few bars being instrumental only. She was frozen in her final pose, a fractured ballerina figurine atop a moving base, turning slowly for all to see every pitiful angle. After the final note, the crowd stayed hushed for a beat. Then, there was hesitant clapping. Polite applause. Meg's number was too much of a contrast to her previous time onstage. This was no longer the bubbly, seductive dancer that led her troupe with fierce confidence.

Erik winced, knowing that he was the reason her performance suffered. This was an audience favorite. A novelty. _Have I inflicted that much damage?_

"_It is as much your song as it is mine, Meg," _he recalled saying to her, once.

The applause died at the same time the spotlights dimmed to black. Relief seemed to permeate the room, as the awkwardness passed and a much livelier act took its place. Erik watched Meg run out of the wing into the hallway that led to the dressing rooms and the living areas. Christine did not follow. She waited for her own solo. Her final performance for Mr. Y. Erik watched as she folded her arms under her chest. Her breathing was steady and deep.

Meg ran to the dressing room and gasped, when she saw her reflection. She hadn't planned on crumbling into a sobbing mess onstage. Trails of tear-stained skin were all over the top of her shoulders and face. Some of the powder was missing from her hands and arms, where droplets of salted water had most likely landed when thrown from her cheeks during the jerky movements of the dance.

The ladies in the room stared at her, covertly, not wishing to directly address her. Suzanne whispered to Ellie in the corner. Greta gave no notice of Meg's emotional state. She simply started removing the articles of clothing with steady hands and her calm demeanor. The costumer took the accessories back to the storage compartment she had found them in.

Meg stared at herself in the mirror, knowing that she was, technically, supposed to leave on this final costume to be recognizable for the bows. But she didn't even recognize the creature that stood in her shoes. She removed the rest of the garment, gently placing the loved pieces on their hangers, placing the shoes and tights in her designated drawer space, and grabbing her silk robe from where it always hung, when not in use.

She left the room to be alone in her own and not a soul stopped her. Once inside, she stripped down to her undergarments and used a wetted cloth to wipe away the remaining powder. She washed her face, too, and smiled tiredly at the haggard expression that was left. At least there were no visible signs of tears.

She grabbed a white blouse and a long black skirt from her wardrobe and dressed. There was no need for stockings or accessories, aside from a worn pair of black boots. Although she would not be present for the curtain call, again, she would join the rest of the cast in cleaning the theater after the paying customers were gone.

The pins were removed from her hair, and she sighed with relief at her loose curls falling freely down her back.

It was then she noticed the book on her vanity. Right in front of her. Mocking her.

_When did…_

She looked around, but found nothing to be out of place. But she had a strange feeling…

For a moment, she picked up the book and contemplated throwing it away, for a third time. But, without care, she tossed it back onto the table. It didn't matter, anymore. With a second thought, she removed her mother's brooch from her jewelry box and fastened it to her blouse's neck. She admired the way the center stone glinted in the mirror. Black, with flecks of light deep within. _Like the sea at night,_ she imagined.

The jewelry box was still opened, and she took out her mother's ring. A plain cameo. Nothing of significance. Except to those who knew her. She turned the object around her fingers, letting it roll along all its edges. She opened the drawer where her mother's letter to her still lay, undisturbed.

_Christine knows so little of what actually transpired_, Meg realized.

She left the letter and ring upon the book, sitting in a prettily posed pile, and left her room. Walking down the hall, she saw her blonde locks still hanging down upon her shoulders. A lady would never traipse around without her hair fastened in a sophisticated pile upon her head. No gloves, no stockings, no hat… it mattered little, thankfully, in their private theatrical world. Decorum was considered, to them, more of an offense than most of the language the company used on a daily basis.

Christine's voice lilted through the hall, pouring from the stage door. Her song had just started.

"_Who knows when love begins,  
__Who knows what makes it start?  
__One day it's simply there,  
__Alive inside your heart._

"_It slips into your thoughts,  
__It infiltrates your soul.  
__It takes you by surprise,  
__Then seizes full control."_

Meg arrived at the guest rooms and glanced over to the room the Phantom occupied. No light coming from the floor or the keyhole. _He would never miss his love's final performance._ She turned the handle on Christine's door and entered.

_Phantasma_ was wrapping up, so no one was present. Raoul had undoubtedly packed all of their belongings, as the luggage was ready at the entry. She moved past the bags and onto the bedroom. The door was left open, and Christine's outfit was laid out on the bed. The clothes she would change into, so that she could leave everything behind from her experience in Coney Island.

Christine would be arriving at any moment, so Meg returned to the parlor to wait for her friend. She sat on the same sofa where they had shared many stories back and forth, over the past week. The sounds of someone fiddling with the door could be heard on her side of the room, and Meg sat straighter in her seated position.

"Meg!" Christine called out in surprise. The brunette woman was obviously relieved to see her friend in a composed state. "Where have you been? Are you well?" She ran to Meg's side and was seated, still in her silky gown.

Raoul and Gustave appeared behind her, both nonchalantly looking past the two ladies. Meg saw the awkwardness in their manner, and she ignored Christine's questions to address the room.

"I'm so sorry about that," she bashfully spoke to the family. "I'm usually so proud of that number, but I fell apart during that performance. I can't believe that will be the final thing you will recall, when you think of me onstage. I'm mortified, truly."

"It was still a beautiful song," Raoul placated the worrying blonde. Gustave held onto his father's side and shyly watched a broken version of the woman he had spent so much of his time with. "Your costume, the concept…the unique style of dancing…it was quite the dazzling display."

"Thank you," Meg responded graciously. "Your assessment is too generous, after my poor performance."

"We understand, Meg," Christine spoke up, no longer bothering to keep up the façade of her friend's new moniker. Gustave didn't bat an eye at the alternate name, remaining by his father's side. "After all you've been through, with what this week must've been like for you… I just can't imagine." Raoul nodded solemnly.

"Dear?" Christine looked to her husband, now. "Would you mind taking Gustave and our belongings to the carriage? I'd like to have a moment alone, if you'd please."

Raoul hesitated, giving his wife a pointed look. "Don't be long. Or I'll come charging in."

"There's no threat. Not anymore. Just goodbyes."

"Tell Miss Addie goodbye, then, Gustave," he ordered his son. The boy slowly moved closer to Meg, obedient but uncertain.

He stopped out of her arms' reach, and she smiled reassuringly at the little man.

"If you'd like, Gustave," Meg quietly said, "you may call me Meg. I only let those I care for the _most_ call me by that name."

The young lad smiled and walked into her embrace. "Goodbye, Miss Meg," he affectionately murmured into her shoulder. "Thank you for watching over me."

Meg's heart soared in hearing the innocently-spoken words. Hearing him call her by her true name, for the first time since they had met. She released him and he went back to his father. Raoul gave his son a small bag and took the larger items within his arms.

Before exiting through the open door, the gentleman looked once more to Meg.

"Our offer stands now and forever, Meg," he kindly reminded her. "If you need anything, passage to Europe, a place to stay, help in any form…please contact us. You and your mother are extensions of our family. We owe you so much."

Christine's countenance tightened, at the mention of Madam Giry, and Meg wondered at the reaction.

The man and boy left, and Christine rose from her seat to close the door behind them. Their privacy restored, she returned to sit next to her friend. Neither spoke, as they enjoyed the final moments of their physical proximity. In the silence, Meg began to cry, again.

"I will miss you so much!" the fair-haired dancer blurted out. They hugged each other tightly, and Christine's eyes also began to water.

"Is there nothing I can say to entice you to come with us?" Christine asked.

Meg pulled away and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. She had wiped away enough evidence of her sadness for one day. The last thing Meg wanted was to return to her room to wash tear-stains from her face.

"Nothing, I'm afraid. Not at this time."

"Will you come visit us, then, someday soon?"

The blonde contemplated how to answer. "Perhaps. I need to find the strength to leave, first, don't I?" She smiled sadly.

Christine returned the gloomy look. "Can you come with us to our hotel, see us off properly? You can dine with us at Astor House, tonight, and we can order a carriage to bring you back."

The thought of stepping foot back into that hotel was too depressing for Meg. She shook her head as calmly as she could, not wishing to alarm her friend with a more emphatic reply.

"After the final show on Sundays, the entire company is required to thoroughly clean the theater house," she explained. "It would be unfair for me to leave without doing my part."

The singer received the flimsy excuse, without any further attempts to pull Meg away from Coney Island. They embraced a final time; both promised to write frequently, and their goodbyes were completed with less tears and more genuine smiles.

Holding hands, pulling away slowly to exit on opposite ends of the stage. Opposite directions in life. One last time.

They had met briefly, for a fleeting moment in the breadth of their lives. Brought together by fate, but kept apart by choice. And, now, left with only memories of a visit that flashed by with the importance and brevity of a comet.

Meg left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Christine to change into her own clothing and leave _Phantasma _for good.

Christine took a moment to breathe and take in her surroundings. _It really is a lovely room_, she reflected, walking to the bedroom. She closed the door to the parlor, needing an extra measure of solitude, taking her time to change out of the lilac gown and accessories. She placed each item on the large bed, giving each piece enough space as to not snag or become damaged in any way.

Once her new vestments were secured, she turned in front of the cheval mirror in the room. She held her breath and walked back out the door to the parlor.

_He_ was sitting there.

Of course.

Tranquil, rested. He stood up to acknowledge her, as she entered his space. She stood her ground, straight and tall, looking magnificent and refined in her rich garments. He matched her, in both presence and grandeur, wearing his elegant suit and accessories. They stared across the room at each other momentarily, before Christine raised her voice.

"Will you allow me to leave?" her tone didn't waver in fright. She asked honestly.

Erik sat back down and looked straight ahead to the empty chair on the opposite end of the low table.

"I came to bid you farewell, Christine." His words were soft. Softer than he had ever sounded, she thought.

Her brows elevated in surprise, and her stance relaxed. "I fulfilled my end of our bargain."

"Yes," he agreed. "You were magnificent."

Silence fell between them, thick with tension and unresolved emotions. It was Erik who filled the void, on this occasion.

"Your payment will be sent to Astor House, tomorrow morning, at the start of the business day-"

"I _hardly_ care about the money," Christine snapped. It was Erik's turn to be taken aback. "I'm worried for my friend. I hate leaving her like this, with a man who knows nothing of love and who uses her to suit his own purposes. I hate having to walk away, left only to imagine the sordid tactics you used to keep her under your control!"

The words clicked inside his head, as he remembered their original source. "Ah, so you read the late Madam Giry's letter to our dear Meg, as well?" He smirked knowingly at the self-righteous woman before him.

To her credit, Christine didn't buckle under the accusation. She continued to stand tall, positive that she was still the benevolent party. "I did," she confirmed.

"How did you feel about her admitting her regret in helping you and your Vicomte on that final night? And I recall her writing to Meg to stay out of my way, should I choose to abduct you, again. To 'protect herself' or something in that vein."

"I'll say this," Christine coolly spoke to the Phantom. "I no longer have Madam Giry placed on a pedestal, when reminiscing about our shared past." She took a step toward the dark composer and shot back. "What did you think about her scathing review of your character? That you are incapable of receiving or giving love, and that you act rashly, selfishly, to attain what you feel you deserve?"

He leaned back in the chair with a pronounced arrogance. "I suppose, to an extent, she was right. I was pleased she accepted as much blame as she did." His eyes dropped to his lap, with a sudden humility. "But a lot changes in eight years," he shared, deep in his own thoughts.

"Apparently," Christine scoffed. "I hardly know Meg, anymore. When we speak of our past, the conversation is easy, but anything dealing with her time with you, and she alters to a degree that makes her almost unrecognizable." Christine's voice also hushed to a melancholy whisper. "She's not the same girl I knew."

"No, she's not," Erik stated plainly.

The two stared at each other, organizing their thoughts privately.

"Please take care of her, Erik," Christine pleaded. Erik's heart grew in his chest, hearing his name spoken with such care. "She is not well; we may not be bosom friends, but I know enough to know that. I feel very strongly that her fate will be closely entwined with yours. If you know her better than I do, after watching her mature into the person she is now, then I am expecting you to watch over her. I am _hoping_ that you are as good of a man as she believes you to be."

Erik stood and slowly walked toward his former pupil. She watched his advancement with a wary eye, but she did not retreat. He gently grabbed her gloved hand within one of his own and brought it to his lips for a chaste kiss.

"I have protected and cared for her for the past eight years. I won't stop now," he vowed.

His heart beat like an achingly large drum in his chest, thinking of Meg. The desire he had felt earlier, to speak with his companion, was dwarfed by the new sensation that seemed to radiate from his very soul. A feeling that had grown and ripened over eight years. Something that he had never wished to acknowledge, out of some misguided fear and denial.

"_Try to deny it, and try to protest. But love won't let you go, once you've been possessed…"_

"I'll speak with her tonight, after everyone has left," he added. He gave his former protégé a reserved smile. No superior smirk. No arrogant sneer. "Goodbye, Christine."

She heard the finality in his tone. Tempted to ask if he would seek her out, again, she withheld the question. She already knew the answer. Her smile, too, was genuine.

"Goodbye, Erik."

He left with a volte-face, striding out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

Christine felt lighter, somehow. She, too, left the room, walking the winding path to the front of the theater, where her carriage waited. Various workers and actors were dotted along her trek, and they wished her well, as they performed the chores and tasks they had been given. When Raoul saw her, he couldn't hide the relief in his face, and he jumped out of his seat to help Christine into hers. The horses pulled their transport toward the next destination, and Christine watched _Phantasma _fade from view.

A gorgeous sunset painted the sky, paving the way for the darkness to come.


	16. The Beauty Underneath

**Hello, readers!**

**Welcome to the last chapter of "Her Heart's Desire," a fanfic that has haunted my thoughts for years. YEARS. I originally envisioned it to be longer, similar in length to its prequel, "His Consolation Prize." It's pretty close, actually, by word count, if not by the number of chapters. So that's something!**

**I will be happy, now, to bid the POTO world adieu, for the foreseeable future. Those of you who are Phans for life…you are amazing. I am with you! There are plenty of wonderful Phan-fics out there (although, not enough in the way of Erik/Meg…*wink*), and I will continue to seek them out. For now, though, I need a break. My next projects will revolve around "Versailles" (TV series), "inFAMOUS" (video game), and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (I'm desperate to finish the story I'm writing, at the moment, "Delivered Unto Evil," but it may end up having a sequel…*gasp*). And then, I think I'll tackle some short stories. I've been weirdly inspired by those "writing prompts" on Pinterest lately. We'll see.**

**THANK YOU for the support, in every shape and form. **

**I was a reader, for years, before daring to post an original work on here. I hope you are all flexing your creativity, as well!**

**Be well, stay safe, and happy reading,**

**Jenn**

* * *

Finished with helping Greta and a couple of her chorus ladies thoroughly clean the women's dressing room, Meg slipped out of the theater with a promise to see everyone on Wednesday, for the beginning of a new work week.

She didn't feel guilty about lying to her coworkers. Her absence would be sad, at first, but they would carry on. _The show must go on, that's the saying, right?_

Erik would move one of the more seasoned girls into her spot, perhaps finding a new favorite performer to take over the starring position. She pictured it being Mary. A quiet, easy-going, hard-working girl, Mary would perfectly transition into the role. She was also with _Phantasma_ from the beginning, like Meg, which meant she would understand the gravity of taking on the bigger part.

Outside, the wind blew gusts of cold ocean air past her body, rifling through her long hair and pulling at her skirt. The streets were still quite filled with customers that were reluctant to leave Coney Island, despite the fact that most of the shops, restaurants, and attractions were closing for the night. The sun had set, and the sky now held beautiful shades of purples and blues within the twilight hour.

She ran for Steeplechase Pier, running to the end of the outstretch and past all of the fishermen who were packing up their tackle. She recalled a conversation with one of them less than a week ago. A lifetime ago, it might as well have been.

At the end of the pier, she looked down to the rocks below. The tide was out. The drop was sizable. She expected nothing less. She watched the water, admiring how the colors of the sky reflected off the black sea.

She fingered the item at her collar and imagined the colors, once again. Black, with flecks of color rising to the surface. _Like the sea at night_. She wasn't wrong.

No one bothered her, thankfully, and she diverted her attention to New York and its many lights. She imagined Christine, with her husband and son, eating in one of the rooms of Astor House. Perhaps the same room Meg and Erik had shared eight years ago. The one with a view of the gardens, and the fireplace where they had finally finished _Les Misérables_. The room where Erik had momentarily lost his composure, when he saw Meg in her music box costume for the very first time.

"Are you okay, dearie?" a gruff voice called out to her.

She turned and saw a middle-aged man looking at her inquisitively.

"Yes, I'm fine," she insisted. The answer didn't satisfy him enough to leave her alone, so she continued. "I'm a performer at _Phantasma_, across the way there." She pointed toward the direction of the theater, although it wasn't visible, and he turned to see what she was talking about. He still looked at her skeptically, so she rolled her eyes and made a stronger statement. "I'm just taking in the air, for a moment, before going back, and, although I appreciate your concern, I'd like to enjoy the night _alone_."

The man, well-meaning as he may have been, shrugged and picked up his tackle box and fishing pole, the last of the anglers to leave the pier. And then Meg was, finally, alone.

She reflected on her life. _That's what one is supposed to do, isn't it? Think about what led me here?_ But she'd been in a constant state of reflection and reminiscing, since Christine had arrived.

Meg found herself, instead, humming the lugubrious tune from her duet with her childhood friend. The sky faded to nothing but a sheet of stars, as she imagined new lyrics to sing.

In the theater, Erik walked with a purpose to Meg's room. Most everyone had gone. He could hear a couple of voices murmuring bored conversation, but no one within the vicinity. Reaching her door, he knocked and waited politely for an answer. But he received none. Her light wasn't on, he could tell. He opened the door and turned on the light. Inside, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. On the vanity, the novel now had two new items on its cover: a letter and a ring. He recognized the ring. It was Madam Giry's. Worn on her smallest finger. An ornament. He assumed the letter was hers, too. Odd, that Meg would leave both in a most conspicuous location.

He walked down to the ladies' dressing room, unperturbed by possibly being seen. When he walked through the door, the head costumer, Greta, was sitting in a chair in the corner, mending a hem. She looked up as he entered, mildly surprised and ultimately unimpressed.

"You are him? Herr… _Mister _Y?"

"I am," he stiffly replied. He stepped into the room, but not any closer. She went back to her work.

"I thought so. What do you want?"

He hesitated, unsure of if he could trust the woman. But he needed very little from her.

"I'm looking for Addie. Have you seen her?"

She let out a long sigh. "We finish cleaning. Sie geht. She go."

"Where did she go?"

Greta looked up at Erik thoughtfully. "Why you care?" She smirked with a new thought. "Liebst du sie?"

"Ich verstehe dich," he warned. "My business is my own. _Where_ did she go?"

She only looked more amused at his response. "She leave the theater, I think. I don't know where."

He turned and started to leave the room, more frustrated than when he'd entered. Behind him, he heard the older woman mutter after him in jest.

"Viel Glück."

He didn't need luck. He needed to think. Where would she go? There were no ferries at this hour. He doubted she would go off the island.

"_I lost track of time, Erik. I needed time to myself. You _know _how pressured I've felt, ever since Christine arrived-"_

"_This has NOTHING to do with her!"_

"_I beg to differ. _Everything_ seems to revolve around Christine. And I haven't been able to go out to swim in almost a week. My head-"_

He ran for the docks, his jaw clenched. But, arriving at the many wooden structures, he couldn't see her silhouette anywhere. He looked up to the single pier. It was dark, but he could barely make out a womanly figure. Her white blouse was only barely detectable in the minimal light of the crescent moon.

Meg sat on the rail, her feet dangling precariously over the rocky waters.

"_The sea is calm,  
__The sea is gray.  
__It washes everything away._

"_Sink into the deep,  
__Blue, and cool, and kind.  
__Then, drift off to sleep.  
__Let the past unwind…_

"_Leave the hurt behind…"_

"Those are beautiful lyrics," a voice called out softly behind her.

She startled, and gripped the railing with ferocious strength, then slightly turned her upper body to see Erik approaching her cautiously.

"Stay back!" she yelled at his black-clad figure. He paused, then started to continue forward slowly. "Not another step!" she insisted. And he froze.

"Meg, what are you-"

"Not another word!" her voice broke with emotion.

He shook his head in a single, tight movement, both in acknowledgment of her order and incredulous at the circumstance they found themselves in.

"I am _finished_, Erik," she stated firmly. She kept her eyes upon him, and he respected the very real threat that he saw behind her glare. "The things you have done, what you put me through this past week… there is no going back to the way things were, before Christine's arrival."

He pursed his lips, wanting to speak, but not wanting to incite hysterics. Things had, indeed, fallen spectacularly apart, and it was his fault this time. Completely his fault. But how to make her see that…

"I am glad you let my friend and her family go," Meg's tone softened only slightly, more because of the love in her heart for Christine than her appreciation of Erik's mercy. "But I know it wasn't a war you intended to lose. You merely knew, _finally_, when to concede."

"I'm so tired," she said. She had been repeating those words over and over again, both in her mind and outwardly. She looked toward the horizon, where she could only barely make out the distinction between sea and sky. "I played my part. I did _everything_ I could to please you. And then you pushed me too far. You made me choose between my love for you and my decency as a human being..." She swore in her mind, at her accidental confession of her feelings for him.

Erik stepped sideways, with extreme caution. He maintained the distance between them, but came to the edge of the pier, where he could look into her eyes without her needing to turn around. He removed the gloves as if bored, and dropped them discreetly behind where he stood. Then, he placed his bare hands on the cold, wooden rail.

"I was in your room, earlier today," he quietly spoke toward the waves.

Meg looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I thought you might have been. You removed my novel from the bin, didn't you?"

"I did," he admitted, still not looking over to her. "I couldn't bear to let you part with it. It's too…precious." He looked over, then, and she looked straight ahead. "You asked me, once, if you were Haydee."

"I asked you that eight years ago, Erik, on the ship, not fully comprehending the meaning of my question."

"I disagree," he countered.

She did turn her head to him, then. _Is he honestly trying to antagonize me, right now? What does he think he's doing?_

He continued. "You knew what you were asking, though you didn't attach romantic significance until later. But, even then, you read the novel and imagined a similarly satisfying ending for your own story." He dug within the well of his soul and gave her a longing gaze. "For us both, I daresay."

"Well," Meg huffed in her chest. "I was wrong, on all accounts, it seems." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"No, you weren't…I was wrong," he pleaded. She looked at him dubiously, needing to hear more. "I was wrong about everything. You were right. I _am_ Edmond Dántes. I valued my wishes over my needs. I sought revenge, when I should have been seeking…" He trailed off and let the silence ripen.

"Should have been seeking what?" Meg prodded, irritated.

He took a step toward her, and she leaned away from him, so he halted, again.

"You are _my_ Haydee. You are my hope for a future that transcends a past that I would like, very much, to forget."

"I am NOT a poor man's Christine!" she hissed at the ill-received declaration. "I will NOT be a substitute for what you cannot have!"

He nodded, sadly. "I know you believe that. And I don't know how to make you see that you are more well-suited to me than Christine ever could have been." He sang lyrics that he had written years ago, but had never used. She knew the tune well. He never dreamed the song would be prophetic, in a way; it was meant for his performers, but she needed to hear it, now.

"_You feel ugly, you feel used,  
__You feel broken, you feel bruised,  
__Ah, but me, I can see all the beauty underneath!"_

She shied away from the pretty lyrics. They were a backhanded compliment, at best. At their most sinister, they were a leash with which to re-exert his control over her.

"_You've been robbed of love and pride,  
__Been ignored and pushed aside,  
__Even so, I still know there is beauty underneath."_

He took another step toward her, and she yelled loudly enough to startle him.

"I SAID STAY BACK! I'LL JUMP, I SWEAR IT!"

Erik felt his heart race in his chest at the thought. This is what Meg came to the end of the pier to do. And him trying to placate her would only hasten the event.

Instead, he reached to his neck, and undid the clasp there. The black and red cape cascaded to the ground, covering his gloves. Meg was surprised, but she didn't comment until he began to climb over the rail.

"What are you doing?"

He chose each movement carefully, placing his hands and shoes on the handrail and much lower foot rail, until his feet were at the edges of the planks. His toes secured, but the heels of his feet jutting out into the ocean air beyond the safety of the pier. He faced Meg, who still sat further down and was balanced upon the highest support. She looked panicked.

"I made it through the last eight years because I had you, Meg. And I fell in love with you. But I didn't know it _was_ love, because I couldn't distinguish love from obsession. How could I? No one has loved me. And I couldn't – I wouldn't recognize that my need for you, my affection for you, was stronger than my desire to possess Christine."

Meg held her breath, and Erik took cautious steps toward her, pulling himself along the rail's length. She was too frightened for his safety to think of the closing distance between them.

"She helped me see it, actually. I was incensed, when she threatened to take you away from me. I think I realized it, then."

"Please, be careful! Stop this!" Meg cried.

"I can't," he spoke deeply. "If you go, I go, too. I forced you to accompany me on my path, Meg. I'm sorry that I can't go back and change the many ways I've hurt you." Her eyes watered, and he came alongside her, their bare hands touching on the rail. She was situated above him, higher, with the piece of wood to bolster her. He looked up into her sorrowful face. "But, I accompany _you_, now. And if this is the path you choose…then I will follow."

She shook her head. "Erik, no…"

"I already know I can go on without Christine." He took the hand that brushed hers and gently splayed it across her midsection, securing her, and providing an obstacle to the rocky waters below. "I don't _want_ to go on, without you."

Her smile grew, along with his, without proper regard for their hazardous position. She turned away from him and carefully maneuvered one leg back over the rail. He supported her as best as he could, the one hand sliding around her body to her side, then her back, as she twisted her body back toward the pier. At one point, her skirt snagged onto a splinter on the rail.

When she tried to pull her other leg toward safety, the skirt remained hooked in place, causing her to fall back. The direction of her fall led her back at an angle into Erik's body, which held steadfast. The entire length of the crisis was too quick for either of them to do anything but react with rapid heartbeats and reflexive actions. He used the same hand to both catch her and to propel her forward, tearing the fabric in the process. She landed in a heap on the ground of the pier, a large section of her skirt flapping open in the light breeze.

Meg gasped and her shoulders shook. For being so adamant on taking her own life earlier, she was surprised with how thankful she was to not be dashed on the rocks below the pier.

Erik easily vaulted over the rail, then ran to Meg's side, crouching down next to her. Watching her shiver, he retrieved his discarded garments and returned, throwing his cape over her shivering body. She inhaled the scent on the material, reminding herself of the last time he had made this gentlemanly gesture. Then, another thought crossed her mind.

"I had forgotten how familiar you are with traversing tight places in darkened heights," she spoke evenly. "Were you ever actually in any danger?"

He sighed and stood, he held out a hand to her, but she was reluctant to leave.

"I meant what I said, Meg," he told her. "I love you. I love you so dearly, that I would rather follow you to whatever lies beyond this life, than live the rest of my days without you."

She took the hand, and Erik helped her to her feet. He fastened his cape securely to her own neck, but she still grasped the material tightly around her.

He stroked the side of her cheek, his bare skin against hers. A feeling he had experienced many times, but his heart never felt as full as it did now. Her hair and his cape billowed lightly behind her.

He bent down, slowly, tentatively, and she patiently waited for their lips to meet.

Eight years ago, the last and only time he'd kissed her, she was merely desperate for the affection. She resigned herself to being under his control. She acquiesced. On this night, he let _her_ choose. And, up until the point he had climbed the rail, she was still determined to see her original plan through.

But he joined her. A true partner. Ready to follow her into the darkness.

The first real, life-altering decision he'd placed in her hands.

The kiss was exquisitely timed. Soft, then met with more passion, and deepening even further, with simultaneous exploration of the uncharted territory and intimacy. He pulled her closer, using his hand to hold the back of her neck tenderly in place. Her body leaned into his, and he used his other hand to wrap around her waist.

At times, the mask brushed against her, especially where it crested the top of his lip. She wondered, while caught in the ecstasy of the moment, if he would ever show her what was hidden underneath.

But a part of her realized that none of that mattered.

She loved him.

He loved her.

And, finally, it _was_ enough.


End file.
